


Carved in Stone

by thefontbandit



Series: Silver & Gold [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blanket Fic, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Mutual Pining, it's battlefield medicine so a little squeamish but not all-out gory, okay it's the cave variant of blanket fic but same diff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 15:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11466807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefontbandit/pseuds/thefontbandit
Summary: The events at Adamant Fortress are a harrowing experience for Dorian and the Inquisitor, and dealing with the aftermath leads to some revelations. On the trip back to Skyhold, a disaster separates the two of them from the rest of the party. While they struggle to survive the Frostbacks and rejoin their companions, important and painful decisions must be made.





	1. The Fade

**Author's Note:**

> Thar be tropes in them thar hills! 
> 
> Seriously, this is where I dive into all of my favorite overused tropes at once and roll around in them in glorious self-indulgence. You have been warned. (Although to be fair, at least ONE of them is mildly subverted).

The battle is chaos on a scale Dorian has never experienced before. Even the assault on Haven pales in comparison to the attack on Adamant. Against an army of demons, through narrow hallways and on blood-soaked ramparts, the Inquisitor and his companions fight their way toward the center of the keep.

The cacophony is deafening; battle cries, death screams, and the eerily piercing wail of despair demons are a dark counterpoint to the ring of steel on steel, the sickening sound of blades parting flesh, and the sharp crackle of magically-generated lightning. The stench is worse – blood, offal, the unmistakable smell of burned flesh and scorched hair, the acrid odor of demon that stings the nose.

And yet Dorian has never quite felt so very much alive. His heart pounds a fierce rhythm like war drums, his every sense hyper-aware, teeth bared in a grin that is more snarl than smile. A demon slides up beside him, trying to take him by surprise. With one forceful blow of his staff, it falls. He sets it ablaze with little more than a thought and returns to his sentry over their vanguard.

Some paces ahead, Kashek Adaar and the Iron Bull stand nearly back to back, ringed by demons. Together, they keep the foes clustered while Cole dances around the edges of the circle. The spirit flickers in and out of Dorian's eyesight, dealing swift and silent death with brutal efficiency. Dorian tosses another barrier glyph around the trio and picks off a pair of wraiths in a fiery blaze when they venture too far. Kashek's shield meets a demon's face with an audible crunch while he lashes out with his sword at a second creature. Bull's axe cleaves a secondary swath of destruction through the demons, but more keep coming. They pour out of every doorway, converging upon the two Qunari with a single-minded intensity.

A new ripple of energy disturbs the air around Dorian, just before the sizzle of brilliant purple lightning illuminates four demons, who fall and disintegrate into dust.

Dorian turns his head slightly to see Hawke approaching, her steps steady and sure even in the commotion. She throws him a confident grin and settles in beside him. "Thought you could use the assist," she shouts over the din, raising her voice to be heard even so nearby.

_She and Stroud must have finished clearing out the path behind for our troops._  The battle is starting to shift in their favor.

"I suppose I won't turn aside the help," Dorian calls back just before he freezes a trio of demons who have broken off from the pack and are headed their way. Hawke meets his spell with her own force magic, shattering the three into pieces.

With a grimace, Dorian draws one of the small blue vials from his belt pouch, popping the cork off with one thumb and tossing it back. Lyrium potions are undoubtedly useful, but the stuff tastes like fire and ice, like crackling ozone fighting its way down his throat. Still, the trickle of energy that floods his veins is worth it.

"All clear behind," Hawke declares. Warden Stroud charges past the pair of mages to join the fray around the Qunari, luring demons away from the edge of the circle and finishing them off one by one.

With the new assistance, the tide starts to turn. Eventually, the final enemy falls, the last remaining rage demon melting into a puddle of oozing flame that shrieks softly as it dissipates.

There is no time to catch their breath. They regroup and forge ahead, ready to repeat the process once again and cleave a path ever closer to Clarel.

Even so, Kashek tosses Dorian a small, triumphant grin after wiping the sweat from his brow. Exultant that they are both still alive, still watching each other's backs.

Dorian returns the smile with one of his own, fierce and fueled by adrenaline. Perhaps he understands a little of Iron Bull's passion for battle now, with his pulse roaring in his ears, a near-frantic energy coursing through his veins. Battle has always been something calculated, before. It was sometimes exciting in a competitive way, to prove one is better than one's enemies, but this level of chaos has fueled a whole new sort of rush. It leaves him enervated and alert, ready for anything.

_We're coming for you, Erimond_ , he thinks fiercely as he follows.

 

* * *

 

The abrupt fall into the Fade smothers that battle-fury, as brutally and suddenly as a bucket of water dousing a candle flame.

The events all tumble together in a rapid jumble; the fight with the dragon, the wrenching, heart-lurching plummet from the battlements, then... this.

A heavy miasma of fear hangs in the air like a fog of putrid scent, oppressive and unavoidable. Clammy and thick, it presses against his skin. A sickly greenish haze permeates everything here, from the stones to the water to the eerie mist that creeps along the ground and tangles itself in near-sentient curls. Almost against his will, Dorian's nerves all cry a warning, his heartbeat racing and breath quickening, an anxiety with no true source. Magic, he can tell, but he cannot still his body's instinctive reaction to it. The fear is a simple compulsion, and fighting it is not unlike resisting the lure of a demon, a constant pressure he must continually struggle to push aside.

A glance upward reveals the looming presence of the Black City in the far distance, an ominous specter of dark, jagged spires.

Cole's agitated cries break into Dorian's survey of their surroundings. The poor boy is terrified, frantic. Though Dorian finds this version of the Fade disconcerting enough, it must be impossibly difficult for the spirit to be here after adapting and to fit their world. Now, to return home, more or less, and find it all... wrong, it can only be frightening.

For a flicker of an instant, Dorian imagines returning to the Alexius estate – more a home to him than his family's manor in Qarinus had ever been – only to find it corrupted, broken and crumbling. The library where he'd spent hours poring over ancient tomes for scraps of information, the parlor where he'd shared brandy and wild magical theories with Gereon late into the night, the kitchen where he and Felix had gleefully stolen a midnight snack of pastries intended for breakfast after a long night of their differing studies. All gone, all distorted, the edges sharp and everything broken.

It takes a few moments for them to calm the boy. Though he remains visibly troubled, Cole finds a grip on his terror and quiets for now. Still, the spirit is one of the few at Skyhold Dorian would consider a friend, and it is upsetting to see him so.

"Perhaps we should find a way out of here sooner rather than later," Dorian suggests.

"I agree," Kashek replies, setting his shoulders and picking out a path between the uneven stones.

 

* * *

 

It's unnerving to see your name on a tombstone, to be confronted with your own mortality in harsh, carved letters. The miasma of terror still seeps into Dorian with every breath. Though he knows this is but a specter, a ghostly illusion set here by the Nightmare and meant solely to demoralize him, it still works.

His name stands out in crisp, bold lettering, with a single word below it.  _Temptation._  His fate, carved in stone.

Dorian's stomach turns in knots staring at it. Unsettling, to realize he didn't know himself as well as he'd thought. Not the word he'd have chosen if asked, but it makes his blood run cold to see it, left with thoughts of his father. His upright and unbending father, who so long railed against blood magic, yet still yielded to its temptation of power when it offered a way to preserve his desires. Even at the cost of a son.

Dorian is left to wonder if he will fall to the same lure of power, resorting to blood magic if it gives him what he most desires. Would he cross that line for Kashek's sake? How far is he willing to fall on the Inquisitor's behalf, if worst comes to worst?

Or perhaps the gravestone reflects a more straightforward option. Maybe his downfall will be the inexorable slide backward into the mess he used to be, seeking comfort from a bottle and cheap, tawdry distractions. Or merely the simple trap of taking the easy way out, of running away rather than fighting for the harder path, for what he knows is right, what he knows he could be.

Icy fingers of fear crawl down his spine at the thought.

Next to his tombstone another grave marker rests, emblazoned with Kashek Adaar's name and another single word.

_Failure._

Kashek stands before it, unable to look away, fists clenched tightly at his sides. Iron Bull, Stroud, and Hawke have already left to scout around the corner ahead. Bull had spent one long moment staring at his tombstone before swearing softly under his breath and turning away. Cole now stands slightly apart from the small mockery of a cemetery, his arms wrapped tightly about his stomach and his head bowed.

Wordlessly, the Inquisitor takes a shaky breath and turns his head to meet Dorian's gaze. Broken and fearful, his eyes are shadowed with the oppressive darkness of this place. Almost instinctively, Dorian takes a step to close the gap between them and reaches out, wrapping his fingers around Kashek's tightly clenched fist. After a moment, the Inquisitor's grasp loosens, the tension in his shoulders softening with it. The Qunari manages a weak smile and squeezes Dorian's hand.

Gathering his own strength from that touch, Dorian tries his best at his own reassuring smile through the fog of fear, past his rapid heartbeat that refuses to slow in this twisted place. "Let's keep going."

Silently, Kashek nods, slipping his fingers from Dorian's gently as he turns to leave. Cole still stands beside the gravestones, huddled around his middle as if to hold himself together. They stop before him.

"It's good," the boy murmurs softly, staring down at the ground. "Fingers strong, sturdy, silent support in his touch. Calms the quivering deep inside." He unwraps his arms from around himself, setting them firmly at his sides, meets Dorian's gaze for a moment before his watery eyes slide away. "It quiets the wrongness of this place. A little."

Kashek stands before the boy, sympathy naked on his face. "How are you holding up?"

"It hurts," Cole admits, "but friends help. You help."

"Good," the Inquisitor replies softly. "We'll get you out of here soon, Cole. Let's go."

 

* * *

 

 

It's like suddenly surfacing after a long dive and gasping in heavy gulps of air, or the jarring jolt into awareness after waking from a terrible dream. Dorian's palms scrape painfully against the stones of Adamant fortress as he falls from the rift back into reality. The dark, pervasive weight of terror that filled the fade now gone, he feels almost giddy.

A moment later, he steadies himself and scrambles to stand, heart pounding as he watches the rift expectantly. One by one, the rest of their party stumbles through. Bull. Cole. Hawke. Then nothing.

He counts every long, painful moment between each heartbeat, his throat tight with fear.

One.

Two.

Three. He can't breathe, his lungs frozen, the icy shards piercing his chest. 

Four.

Five. What will he do if Kashek never emerges?

Six. 

Seven.

And then suddenly, the rift crackles violently, spilling the Inquisitor out. His steps falter, stumbling, and Dorian moves instinctively forward before he has time to think. But Kashek catches his balance and takes a deep breath. Dorian halts, suddenly hesitant among the crowded Wardens looking on. Their eyes meet for one long, meaningful moment, then turn away.

Beside him, Cole breathes a sudden sigh of relief. It's unclear whether the cause is the Inquisitor's reappearance, or the sudden respite of no longer being buffeted by Dorian's anxiety. The spirit's eyes glisten with unshed tears. A strangely human response, and Dorian wonders if this world has shaped the boy more than he knows.

"Are you all right?" he asks Cole quietly, concerned that the effects of his trauma in the Fade may linger.

The spirit hesitates for a moment, then nods, eyes averted. But he fidgets slightly, his hands touching one another as if to reassure himself of their presence. In anyone else, it would be a sign of nervousness, but the habitual gesture is a welcome indication that Cole is feeling more himself. "Yes," the boy says, the previous tension in his voice replaced with his usual soothing tones. "Thank you." He tilts his head strangely, then smiles softly. "You're worried about me." Pleasant surprise hangs on his words.

"Well, yes. That is what friends tend to do, Cole."

"Friends. Yes." Cole agrees, then seems to take strength from the word, his shoulders straightening a little.

Nearby, the Inquisitor stands to confront the remaining Wardens, and the truth of what has just happened hits Dorian suddenly and violently. He hadn't known Stroud well, but the Warden had seemed a good man.  _Was_  a good man, to give himself for their sake.

_A sacrifice any one of us could be called to make._  A sobering thought.

But it's over, for good or ill, no going back and changing the choices that were made. Hawke stands beside Kashek, her head bowed in grief.

Selfishly, Dorian still cannot help the wave of relief that the Inquisitor survived. That they both did. For now.

Erimond is unrepentant, defiant even in defeat. Even bound, with his magical abilities suppressed by a few of Cullen's former Templars, he stands tall chin set proudly.

As they lead him away, he casts a single glance in Dorian's direction. "A disgrace to your homeland," the magister says, voice dripping with disdain.

"I'm sorry," Dorian responds sharply. "It appears you've mistaken me for a mirror." Before the Venatori can reply, Dorian turns and walks away.


	2. Val Firmin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the demoralizing events at Adamant Fortress, the Inquisitor and a small party stop for a rest at Val Firmin. Wracked with guilt, Inquisitor Adaar turns to Dorian for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tropening begins.
> 
> Also, the seashell pendant mentioned in this chapter first showed up in Part 5 of this series, "Heirloom".

The journey back to Skyhold seems even longer than the one to Adamant. Weary from battle, with the realization of their losses settling in, it's a bittersweet victory for the Inquisition despite their new Grey Warden allies.

The Wardens and the bulk of their forces march separately, under Cullen's direction. This smaller group accompanies the Inquisitor; Dorian, Bull, Cole, Varric, and Cassandra take a faster path back to Skyhold, with only a small detour through Emprise to handle a minor matter. After Val Firmin, their path will cross through the northern tip of Emprise du Lion to handle a particularly troublesome rift. Afterward, they'll return to the road and circle north around the Frostbacks. It will prove a cold and unpleasant journey.

_At least it doesn't involve a boat,_ Dorian thinks in an attempt to lighten his mood. Though to be fair, he is not much a fan of horses, either. They smell, and never quite seem to like him much. Though he's slowly adapting to riding, everything still aches after a day on horseback, too. Even so, an overland ride is far preferable to another sea voyage.

Several of the Inquisitor's frequent companions stayed behind with the army. Vivienne remained to help tend to the wounded, as the only one of the Inquisitor's three closest mages who had any true aptitude for healing magic. Solas had elected to march with the rest of the forces as well, though his reasons were his own. That one was a surprise, given the elf's disdain of the Wardens. Sera had sustained a shoulder injury in the battle. It was minor, but she would not be drawing a bow anytime soon. With their precious potions prioritized for those who bore far more deadly wounds, Sera was left to heal naturally, and would be a liability if the smaller group ran into trouble. She'd been stuck behind with the larger group under some rather colorful protest. Blackwall had also remained to travel with the Wardens, of course. There had never been a question of that.

It is the third day of their smaller party's journey, and the Western Approach has given way to greener lands in the settled regions of Orlais. Early spring has settled in, resulting in intermittent rain and unreliable weather that can be mild one day and prone to chill, gusty southern winds the next. They should reach Val Firmin this evening, and Dorian looks forward to the prospect of a proper bed in an inn.

Kashek has been decidedly silent since Adamant, withdrawn and distant.

_He blames himself._ Dorian is reminded of those bold, sharp letters on the Inquisitor's ghostly tombstone in the Fade. _Failure_.

Like a phantom pain, Dorian aches to ease the Inquisitor's troubled mind. But both his attempts to lighten the mood and his efforts at getting a quiet word alone with Kashek have been unsuccessful. Even Varric and Bull's assistance can't bring a smile to Kashek's face, when he bothers to notice the conversation at all. To make it worse, Dorian strongly suspects the Inquisitor is actively avoiding being alone with him.

That worry grows slowly and steadily within him, roots digging deep. Why is the Inquisitor avoiding him? Thoughtlessly, he touches his collarbone lightly with one hand, where his family's pendant rests beneath his robes. He had not been gracious accepting the heirloom's return, when Kashek confronted that Orlesian scavenger in Val Royeaux for it on their way to Adamant. It still leaves him uneasy, the promise Kashek had made for the sake of returning the piece to Dorian. Vicious political games, drawing the Inquisitor in deeper and deeper.

It is something Varric warned him about long ago. _"If it comes down to it, will he choose you over the greater good?"_ Already, Kashek makes compromises for Dorian's sake. It's not a role he relishes.

He glances up from his dark thoughts to find that his musings have caused him to fall behind the group. Dorian grits his teeth and spurs his horse forward. The beast obeys reluctantly, tossing its head and snorting at him in displeasure.

Well, if Kashek still remains distracted and distant tonight, he _will_ manage to speak with the Qunari one way or another. Even if it means cornering the Inquisitor in his room at the inn. What happened at Adamant weighs heavily on all their shoulders, but Kashek worst of all. Still, the Inquisition cannot afford a leader who is overburdened with self-doubt.

At least, that's what Dorian tells himself, though he knows his true reasons for wanting to ease Kashek's guilty conscience are entirely personal. He shakes his head, trying to clear his muddled thoughts. The effort is not particularly successful. It will be a long ride until Val Firmin.

 

* * *

 

 "Three rooms," Cassandra states flatly as she emerges from the inn. It is the last one left in the small city, just past the farthest outskirts of Val Firmin. This lack of available space was certainly not a problem they had foreseen.

Varric sighs. "We would have the poor luck to travel through here at the same time a local noble is celebrating his wedding. Can't we use our clout to clear a few more rooms?"

Cassandra shakes her head. "We can ill afford to offend any potential allies right now, and disturbing the Comte's wedding is a certain way to create enemies."

"At least they have _some_ space," Bull suggests with a shrug. "Looks like we'll need to bunk up. Or we could just camp outside town."

Dorian's heart sinks at the thought. He's been daydreaming about a real bed and a genuine roof over his head since they left Adamant, weary and battle-sore. The last few hours have been particularly trying. Cassandra's horse threw a shoe, forcing her to walk the beast the final stretch and slow their pace.

They will not find lodging again for several days, and even that is no certainty.

"I think actual beds, a hot meal, and a wash will do us some good," Kashek says quietly, but his gaze slides over to Dorian for just the slightest instant as he says it.

"We can share," Bull replies, glancing at Cassandra with a teasingly wicked grin.

The Seeker snorts in disgust and turns aside. Her eyes next rest on Varric, and her expression sours even further. "Certainly not." Her gaze slides past Dorian and Kashek, the smallest ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Cole, you will room with me," she declares, and gestures for the boy to follow.

Varric stretches and shifts Bianca's weight. "Hm. I doubt both of you Qunari will fit in a single room. Guess that means you get to be my roommate for a night, Bull." The dwarf grins widely and gives Dorian the briefest of knowing looks as he starts toward the door of the inn. "But try any funny stuff and you might get to know Bianca a little better. She's a jealous little minx." He reaches behind him to pat the crossbow affectionately.

Bull laughs, the sound resonant and contagious. "I'll keep that in mind."

Dorian is suddenly andkeenly aware of the awkward tension that hangs between himself and the Inquisitor, both left standing alone in the street.

When he gathers his courage to look at Kashek, the Qunari's cheeks are vivid pink, his hands nervously fidgeting with the straps of his pack. He darts a worried glance at Dorian. When he speaks, his voice is low and sheepish. "Everyone knows, don't they?"

"Well, I'd wager that word has yet to reach Rivain, but yes," Dorian sighs, softening the words with a smirk. "I'm fairly certain all of Skyhold knew before we left for Jader. Subtlety isn't particularly your forte, Inquisitor."

Kashek sighs wearily, lips twisting into a wry grimace. "So I've been told. I'm sorry, Dorian," he murmurs, shifting his weight anxiously.

Dorian shrugs. "It is less troubling than it once was, at least among close friends." It is startling to realize the words are more than just gentle reassurance. More surprising is the fact that there are several people he can truly call friend.

For the first time since Adamant, the Inquisitor smiles. It's not much, wan and vague, but it's a start. Dorian returns the expression.

Kashek opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, and closes it. Then he shakes his head slightly and blurts the words suddenly. "I knew that Bull knew. He spoke to me, after Satinalia. But he's a spy, good at noticing details. I didn't realize..."

Dorian interrupts with a snort and a wave of his hand. "Varric began meddling long before that, and it's not as if Cole hasn't blurted half my thoughts for the world to hear." He shakes his head. "Cassandra may be no spymaster, but she has eyes. It was only a matter of time." His voice softens, growing more serious. "It's... new. But perhaps not entirely a bad thing. I rely on each of them in battle. I think I can trust this small handful with the knowledge of... whatever this is." _Still reluctant to give it a name, though, aren't you?_ Dorian notes to himself ruefully. But words have a power of their own, and there's a tiny part of him that fears naming this will break the spell, will end it all. And he's not ready for this to be over, not yet.

Despite his hesitation, the words still soften the grief and guilt in Kashek's eyes. They always seem to brighten when he's happy, the gold overpowering the mossy green. The Inquisitor musters another weak smile and walks toward the inn. "Well, let's see what accommodations Cassandra managed to wrangle for us."

 

* * *

 

The common room of the inn is blessedly warm, heated by a large, roaring hearth. The aroma of the roast hanging over the flames makes Dorian's stomach growl, savory spices perfuming the air. The inn is doing a brisk business, now full to the brim. The raucous chatter of a dozen cheerful conversations fills the air, and only a single table remains open.

Cassandra waits by the narrow stairs that lead to the upstairs rooms, to show them their night's lodgings. The rest of the group is nowhere to be seen, probably settling their belongings in their own quarters for the night.

The rooms are modest but clean, and still vastly better than a tent. The space he will share with the Inquisitor contains two narrow beds, barely large enough for the Qunari. There's not much additional space to move around in, and the ceiling slants low on one side, following the slope of the roof above them.

But it is almost directly above the main room, and the heat from the crowded tavern fills the space. Silver linings. They drop off their belongings in the small space available.

"Cozy," Dorian remarks dryly as he removes his heavy wool coat. The comment elicits a ghost of a smile from Kashek.

"I've seen worse."

"Well, yes. At least this lodging is on solid ground." Dorian shudders at the memory as he hangs the ugly Fereldan coat on a hook behind the door. Though he'll admit, what Fereldans lack in taste, they make up for in practicality. The cream-colored wool garment, lined and trimmed with gray fennec fur, is as warm as it is unattractive.

As he drapes the coat on the hook, Dorian takes a cautious sniff of the air. Underneath the scent of tonight's dinner wafting up from below, the room smells mildly of vinegar and cleaning herbs. At least the proprietor takes some care with the place. "Smells better than a boat, too."

At that, the Inquisitor even chuckles a little, but the conversation then lapses into awkward silence while the Inquisitor unbuckles his armor, removing both the plate and padding, leaving only the shirt, trousers, and boots.

The whole time, Dorian stands idly near the door, uneasy. He starts to speak, but pauses. There are so many things he wants to say. _Why are you avoiding me? Adamant wasn't your fault, you salvaged an awful situation as best you could. I wish so terribly that I could do something, anything, to soothe away the guilt that gnaws at you._ Instead, he stands awkwardly by the door, struggling to find the words that will help.

Kashek seems just as uncomfortable, his gaze focused down on the floorboards as he turns to leave the room.

"Wait," Dorian blurts out, darting out a hand to grasp Kashek's wrist. The Qunari pauses, turning to meet his eyes. It's almost an instinctive motion, to pull Kashek closer, to wrap his arms around the Inquisitor. Easier than words, to offer comfort like this instead.

For a long moment, Kashek remains still and rigid in his arms. Then, with one long, shuddering breath, the Inquisitor's stoicism crumbles. He tightens the embrace, burying his face in Dorian's hair. A wall collapsing, his carefully-composed shield against the worst of the guilt now gone. Dorian knows that feeling all too well, the barriers one creates within one's own heart.

"It's not your fault," Dorian says quietly, cheek resting against the Inquisitor's chest. "You cannot bear the weight of the entire world. And you don't have to suffer any burden alone."

Kashek's hand grasps the back of Dorian's robe tightly in one fist. His breathing ragged, he takes several shaky gasps of air, each growing slowly steadier. Dorian doesn't know how much time passes like that, locked together, lending the Inquisitor his strength. His heart starts to race after the first few moments, a nervous fluttering stirring in his chest, while a steady, slow warmth takes root and spreads through him. He tries to sort out his own emotions and fails. But it's at least a good thing, a spot of warm sunlight in the darkness and troubles that surround them.

After a time, the Inquisitor's breathing steadies, and his grip on the back of Dorian's robe loosens. Still, he doesn't release Dorian completely. Kashek pulls back just enough to lean down and place a gentle kiss on Dorian's forehead. "Thank you," Kashek murmurs, his voice hoarse but no longer as pained.

When they both loosen their arms and step back, Dorian is startled to see Kashek's cheek damp with tracks of tears. His heart breaks a little, staring at those glistening trails. Almost without thought, he reaches upward and brushes them off one cheek. The Inquisitor catches his hand and gently kisses his fingertips.

Dorian's breath hitches as another surge of warmth washes over him, almost a hunger but not quite. Kashek's smile shifts from sadness into something else, something too knowing, almost teasing, and Dorian suddenly can't tear his eyes away from those lips.

The idea of supper suddenly seems less enticing than it did a few moments ago. They could just stay here, lock the door and shut out the world until tomorrow. For the first time, it really sinks in that this night will be their first chance at true privacy for any real length of time, with an actual door between them and everyone else. That mess in Kirkwall doesn't count, ruined by a cursed artifact and Dorian's impulsive foolishness.

A tiny shiver slides up and down his spine, settling low in his stomach as a fluttering of anticipation. His left hand still rests on the Inquisitor's hip, over the loose cotton shirt that now lies untucked, collar unlaced. It would be a simple thing to slip his hand underneath that fabric, press his palm against Kashek's skin. If he slid his hand over those ribs, tugging the hem of the shirt upward to bare the Inquisitor's chest, would the entire garment follow? He wonders what it would take to crack the man's cool composure, to feel his usually gentle kisses turn hungry with sheer need, to make those warrior's hands grasp him greedily close. Dorian suspects it wouldn't take much. After months of wanting, then weeks of only brief stolen kisses in small, urgent moments, they are both like bowstrings strung too tightly. It would only take just the right smile, the right invitation, the right kiss.

Dorian craves it, as deeply as he thirsts for water after a long day of travel. And all he has to do is reach out and take it.

But just as abruptly, his mind protests. _No, not here._ Not on a lumpy, cramped cot in some Orlesian backwater, with the sounds of the tavern rumbling up from below.

It is yet another admission that this is something special, to be treated with greater care than a simple dalliance. And there is another worry he barely admits even to himself, that despite the desire urging him forward, there still lingers an echo of fear. Kashek has given him every reassurance that this is more than a casual fling, has outright stated as much. But still, Dorian wonders somewhere deep in his heart, if the man will still wish to stay, after. Will the luster fade when there is no longer the sweet anticipation of the chase to draw him? Will Kashek let all of this fall apart?  

It is a risk Dorian knows he will still take, someday. Sooner rather than later, most likely. But not tonight.

The temptation remains, a sudden vivid mental image of lips and hands eagerly learning each other's bodies, a vision he pushes aside with an effort.

It almost pains Dorian to say the words. "If we aren't downstairs soon, they'll come looking for us." The statement comes out hoarsely, his throat suddenly dry. But he doesn't pull his hand free of the Inquisitor's gasp.

"Will they?" Kashek's voice is a low rumble. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright.

Considering that everyone else in the group has conspired to 'conveniently' arrange for this shared room, it's a fair point.

"Still," Dorian sighs. "I'd rather not have our conspicuous absence turn up in Varric's novelization of your adventures," he admits with a wry smile, reluctantly withdrawing his hand.

The Inquisitor's smirk fades, but he concedes and lets Dorian go. As Kashek steps back and starts to turn away, regret tangles with frustration inside Dorian's chest.

"Oh, venhedis," he mutters. Impulsively, one hand darts out to grasp the front of the Inquisitor's shirt in a fist and pull him close. "They can wait a minute, at least."

 

* * *

 

"It looks fine," Kashek murmurs as they descend the narrow staircase a few minutes later. "Stop fussing with it." But his tone holds only gentle amusement as he reaches out to still Dorian's nervous fingers combing through his hair.

"Easy for you to say," Dorian replies with a wry grimace, but he resolutely drops his hands.

Besides, if his mussed hair didn't give away what they've been doing for the past few minutes, the fact that the Inquisitor's face is a startling shade of pink certainly will. Dorian sighs softly and grits his teeth, preparing for the knowing looks, the smirks.

But instead, Varric just cheerfully waves them over to the table they've claimed. A round of drinks already decorates the table, two full mugs waiting for them at the empty spaces. Even Cole has a mug, which he holds in both hands and cautiously sips.

Dinner is a companionable experience, everyone's spirits lightened by the warmth of the tavern's room, beer that is remarkably passable, and a hearty meal. Varric fills the time with a simple, lighthearted tale from a time before he met Hawke, a silly anecdote about a game of Diamondback gone horribly awry.

After the meal, Varric produces a deck of cards for a friendly game of Wicked Grace. The wagers are kept small, but the banter is as playfully competitive as ever. The other patrons slowly dwindle, heading to their rooms in the inn or out into the village and presumably their homes.

At first, it seems Kashek's spirits are lightened. The ghosts no longer linger in his eyes, and he laughs along with everyone else. But as the evening progresses, the guilt slowly creeps back upon him. Dorian is uncertain if the others notice and resolutely ignore it, or if he's just become that closely attuned to the Inquisitor. But that small wrinkle in his brow reappears, and the amber in his eyes dims to mossy green. He smiles less, growing slowly quieter.

Eventually, at the end of a round, he pushes his chair back from the table. "I'm going to sleep," he declares briskly, and stalks away to the stairs.

Dorian's heart screams at him to follow, but old habits die hard. There is yet another voice in his mind that urges him to conceal this, that it's too obvious if they leave at the same time. Silly, considering the company. It seems an even more foolish compulsion when the conversation halts and all eyes turn expectantly to Dorian after watching the Inquisitor go.

"What?" he asks.

"Your song is quiet when you are apart, the rhythm wrong," Cole mutters down at the table, his finger idly tracing the letters carved there by a former patron. His movements become more agitated, hands darting out to scratch angrily at the carving on the table now.

Varric places a reassuring hand on Cole's shoulder, and it seems to soothe the boy. "You should talk to him, Sparkler," Varric says gently. "The Inquisitor will listen to you."

While it's exactly what he'd just been thinking, Dorian bristles a little at the suggestion from someone else's lips. Still, he certainly can't ignore the comment and continue playing cards. With a sigh, he pushes his chair back and stands. He makes one sharp parting remark, punctuating it with a sardonic smile. "I'd have fleeced you all next round anyway."

 

* * *

 

As Dorian disappears from view up the narrow staircase, Varric deals the next hand. "You know, Seeker," he remarks with a wide grin, "you really should have given them the room with only one bed."

"Cole told me he has no need to sleep," Cassandra responds pragmatically as she picks up her cards. "It seemed only prudent for us to take it."

Varric sighs. "No sense of drama. If I were spinning this story, that's how I'd have written it. Just imagine the tension! 'Oh no, just one bed? Do they share? Or will one chivalrously offer to take the floor? Where will it all lead?'"

"Or the mage would storm out and give Cassandra the tongue-lashing of a lifetime," Bull remarks lightly as he rifles through his own cards.

"Still..." Varric murmurs thoughtfully. "I might have to write that in to a book, someday."

Cassandra snorts, placing her ante on the table with a firm clank. "Enough. We should not share such idle gossip about our leader." Her tone invites no argument.

"Hey Seeker, what's that in the corner?" Varric asks, pointing to a darkened part of the room.

Cassandra turns her head to glance at the empty corner, puzzled. "What?"

"I think there's a tiny bit of fun over there you haven't stomped on yet."

"Ugh," Cassandra grumbles, scowling. "Just play the game, dwarf."

 

* * *

 

Dorian knocks lightly before nudging the door open. He slips into the room and shuts it quietly behind him. Now that full night has fallen, the lone window in the room is closed and shuttered, a single lantern kindled to wash the space in its dim orange glow.

Kashek sits on one of the beds, his back to the plain wooden headboard, legs crossed tightly before him. His hands lie in his lap, and he stares at something cupped within them. When Dorian enters, Kashek glances up, his eyes hollow and haunted once again.

Dorian stands at the door, hand still on the handle behind his back. "I thought you could use some company," he says quietly.

The Inquisitor doesn't respond for a moment, and his gaze slides back down to the object in his hands.

For a moment, Dorian considers offering to go back out to the common room, to leave Kashek alone with his thoughts. But no, that would do him no real good, only allowing him to sink deeper. Something Dorian refuses to allow to happen.

Instead, he crosses the room and perches lightly on the edge of the bed an arm's length from Kashek. Now much closer, he can see what has captured the Inquisitor's focus. It's the pendant Dorian noticed once before, the shimmering pink spiral of a seashell on a simple leather thong, now untied and no longer around Kashek's neck. A gift from his sister, he'd said, and refused to speak more of it. A sister Dorian had never heard mentioned, otherwise, and another old pain lingering in Kashek's eyes when he spoke of it. Dorian had never brought it up again.

The Inquisitor closes his fist around the pendant, breaking Dorian's intent stare and his thoughts. Their eyes meet once again. Such grief and guilt dwell in Kashek's gaze. Without thought, Dorian places his hands gently around the Qunari's clenched fist.

When Kashek speaks, it's not what Dorian expected to hear. "You want to know, don't you? About the shell?"

Dorian hesitates. _Yes. No._ His curiosity burns deeply, but he is also loathe to dredge up any more pain in Kashek's memories.

He pauses too long.

The Qunari sighs deeply, a shuddering breath. He draws his fist free of Dorian's grasp and loosens his fist to let the seashell hang from the cord. It spins for a moment, then settles. Such a delicate piece, really. It's a wonder it hasn't been crushed beneath Kashek's plate mail in a battle.

"My sister was the first person I ever failed to protect," Kashek begins, voice heavy with remorse and old pain. "This was the last thing she gave me, and I keep it as a reminder never to fail again. Something I did anyway, at Adamant."

Dorian takes a long breath, steeling himself. What he will do next is perhaps harsh, but needed.

"Stop. You can't continue to sulk and wallow, Kashek. The Inquisition needs more from you. They won't survive a leader who doubts himself." He softens his tone. "Stroud made his own decision. Claiming his choice as your own guilt diminishes his sacrifice. Let it be what it is. He saved us, and we should honor that."

Kashek closes his eyes for a moment, letting the hand with the pendant drop into his lap. "You're right." He heaves another weary sigh. "But I still can't help but wonder if I could have prevented it."

"Don't. You made the best decisions you could. You have to trust that. The Inquisition can't afford you not to." _And I can't bear to watch you in pain._ But he can't bring himself to admit the stray thought aloud.

"What if I can't?"

Dorian takes Kashek's free hand again. "Then trust me instead. I say so, and I'm always right, of course."

His lightly teasing tone brings a phantom of a smile to the Inquisitor's lips. "I suppose it will do, for now." He slips his hand free of Dorian's, but only long enough to tie the necklace around his throat again, then returns it to Dorian's grasp. With his other hand, he holds the pendant tightly.

"She was a mage, you know," Kashek says softly. "Savra. My sister."

Dorian can't stop the small gasp that escapes his lips at the sudden confession, but the Inquisitor seems not to notice. His fingers tighten around the Inquisitor's.

The words spill from Kashek, painful memories that he's been holding onto for so long. He stares into a dark corner of the room as he speaks, but he's not really looking at anything, instead seeing things long past.

"Her magic surfaced during my first year with the Valo-Kas. I returned home from a long job to find my mother a frantic mess, Savra scared and petulant. She'd nearly burned the house down, twice. Neither of us knew the first thing about magic. We had no idea what to do.

"A Circle was out of the question, but the Valo-Kas had had a mage once. Though he'd retired to spend his elder years in solitude, we decided he would be best option to teach her, at least enough to control her abilities so she could return home. So we sent a twelve year old child off nearly alone, with only two members of the group to escort her all the way to the heart of Ferelden. I asked to go, but Shokrakar refused. I was too young, too green.

"She was terrified, but she hid it well. Made jokes the whole time she prepared to leave, and gave me the most treasured piece of her entire seashell collection. Said she'd want it back when she returned, but it'd keep me from forgetting her while she was gone."

Kashek pauses in his tale, blinking and turning his head to meet Dorian's eyes. For his part, the mage sits in perfect stillness, as if moving will break the spell and stop the words. The Inquisitor has never spoken at this length to him before. This is something Kashek has been holding for years, and Dorian suspects the telling is a healing of sorts. And though his pulse pounds with dread at where he knows the story will end, he needs to hear it as much as the Inquisitor needs to tell it.

He tightens his grasp on Kashek's hand, and the Inquisitor responds with a pained smile before glancing away and continuing.

"She never made it to Evendale. None of them did. Just... gone. Weeks of waiting, hoping for some word. Sending letters to towns along their path asking for news. The last we could confirm was that they'd passed through Wildervale without incident, then... nothing.

"The best case we could hope was that she'd been captured by Templars and taken to a Circle. But wouldn't she have sent a message letting us know she was alive, if that were the case? Wouldn't our warriors have returned if she were taken from them? Despite Mother's warnings against the danger, I sent letters to every Circle between our small village and South Reach, pretending to be a human scholar studying Qunari, asking for news of any Vashoth apostates. Not one letter came back. Whether they ignored them or merely had no news, I don't know.

"I don't remember when we finally lost hope and grieved for her. Dassran and Kidavaas were good warriors, good people. They wouldn't have abandoned her. We were forced to accept the truth. They ran afoul of bandits, or darkspawn, or a dragon. Maybe their ship sank somewhere on the Waking Sea. She was gone, her bones lost somewhere between Wildervale and the Bannorn. We'll never be able lay her properly to rest."

Kashek stops, closing his eyes. "I should have gone with her, even if it meant getting kicked out of the Valo-Kas. Maybe I could have stopped whatever happened."

"Or maybe you'd be gone too," Dorian says softly, caressing the back of Kashek's hand with his thumb. "You have to let the guilt go, Kashek."

The Inquisitor draws a long, uneven breath. "I know, but I can't. I was her brother, the one who was supposed to stand between her and the rest of the world. Instead, I sent her into the teeth of danger while I remained behind. What if she died scared, knowing I'd abandoned her?"

The raw, jagged agony in the Inquisitor's quiet voice is like a rusty blade, tearing a painful, ragged hole through Dorian. There are no words that can provide true comfort for such grief. But he will provide what little succor he can. The tiny bed is an awkward fit, but he moves closer and once again tries to lend the Inquisitor his strength through his embrace. He curls up against Kashek's broad chest as best he can in the tight space, sliding his arms around the Qunari's waist. Kashek unfolds his legs, stretching them out on the small mattress to make as much room as possible. His chin comes to rest on the top of Dorian's head as he holds the mage tightly in the long silence that follows.

After a time, the Inquisitor's breathing slows, and his embrace loosens as he slips into a restless sleep.

Dorian sighs, shifting his position as slowly as possible, so as not to wake the man. One leg tingles from holding the awkward position for so long. He stretches out in the slim space between the Qunari and the wall, ending up half piled on top of the Inquisitor anyway. _I'm going to regret this when every muscle aches tomorrow,_ he thinks wryly as his back presses uncomfortably against the stone bricks of the wall beside the bed. But as he tugs a blanket over them, he knows the words are a lie.


	3. Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped for the morning in Val Firmin, Kashek and Dorian indulge in a bit of idle fun that ends disastrously for them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amulet briefly mentioned in this chapter first appeared in Part 5 of this series, "Heirloom".

Waking with the sun is a familiar routine for Kashek, but the elbow digging painfully into his ribs is new.

The lantern guttered out hours ago, but early morning light seeps around the edges of the window shutters. Kashek gives up on sleep. He did not rest soundly; the bed is simply too narrow for two to occupy comfortably. Perhaps a dozen times through the night, Kashek awoke to pinched nerves and muscles cramped from awkward positions, only to shift slightly and return to restless dreams.

The other bed sits untouched only a few paces away, mocking him. It would have been an easy thing, to leave this crowded mattress for that one. The thought did occur to him, the third or fourth time he awoke. But despite the physical discomfort, Dorian's nearness is soothing, precious and still too new to discard so easily. The simple warmth and solid presence of his body pressed close is a comfort, and something Kashek once thought would never come to be.

Small marvels, each step Dorian takes to bring himself closer. Kashek can wait, letting Dorian set the pace that he's most comfortable with. Still, to say it's not a little frustrating would be a lie. Greedy, to always want more.

It would not be so maddening, if Dorian didn't seem so conflicted himself.

There had been a moment, last night, when the mage had seemed almost on the brink of dropping his guard entirely. There'd been a stormy, needy look in those wintry-gray eyes that left Kashek shivery and breathless. But then the mage had drawn away yet again, only to immediately throw caution to the wind in that thrilling, deeply satisfying moment of impulsiveness.

Kashek can't help the small smile at the memory. The mage's walls are coming down, brick by brick.

So he can endure a few bruised ribs for the sight of Dorian's face so close, so calm and guileless in slumber, his hair a complete and utter mess. Somehow, the mage ended up lying on his stomach, the thin pillow clutched in his hands and bunched tightly under his head. Hence the elbow jutting out and pressing into Kashek's ribcage.

He carefully starts to disentangle himself, trying not to disturb Dorian. Slowly, first the knee that somehow ended up atop the back of the mage's legs, then the hand that rests lightly on his back. The wooden frame creaks as he shifts his weight to sit up, and he winces. But Dorian's breathing remains slow and deep, though one arm shifts the pillow beneath his head.

Kashek stands, stretching gratefully. A few joints give satisfying pops back into their proper position as he rolls his shoulders to loosen them up. As quietly as possible, he crosses the room and slips on his boots. It is early yet, but the scent of something delicious cooking below permeates the room. He can pass some time in the common room while Dorian sleeps. Cassandra is likely already downstairs; Kashek sometimes doubts the woman sleeps at all.

There is a small basin of water on the nightstand with a tiny, hard lump of soap and two small folded bits of cloth nearby. The water is cold, having sat out all night, but he fears the commotion of taking it downstairs and returning will wake Dorian. Well, he's made do with worse. Kashek scrubs his face and neck, then pauses. With a furtive glance at the slumbering mage, Kashek tugs his shirt up over his head. The collar catches on his necklace for a moment. Without warning, the memory of last night's conversation floods his mind with guilt. He hadn't intended to tell Dorian everything about Savra, at least not yet. It's a painful enough burden for him to bear, and he didn't want to throw it at Dorian's feet. Would Dorian feel like Kashek had failed a fellow mage? Would he wonder if Kashek and his mother had sent her away deliberately, out of fear or disgust?

He grips the seashell tightly in one hand, its familiar smooth whorled shape somehow soothing those worries a little. He did fail Savra, and Stroud, but Dorian was right. Stroud had made a choice. Kashek needed to respect that and move on. At least as best as one can move on. He takes a long, deep breath and loosens his grasp around the pendant. Dorian had been right about one other thing as well – the burden of grief is easier to bear when shared. Perhaps it is time to learn to lean on someone else sometimes, rather than carrying the worst of his worries alone.

While pondering these thoughts, Kashek dips the cloth in the soapy water, wringing it out and quickly scrubbing the worst of the sweat and dust from his chest and shoulders. He'll just be donning the same shirt again, but it's a small relief at least. Dirt is an everyday reality of travel and battle, one many of his fellow mercenaries accepted as inevitable. Still, Kashek fights the grime as much as he can.

He's stretching his arm over one shoulder to reach an awkward spot on his back when he hears the wooden creak of the bed frame behind him. Before he even turns, Kashek feels the flush of heat into his face and ears, and knows he's turning bright scarlet again.

On the bed, Dorian has stretched out to take up the space, lounging quite comfortably and propping his head up on one arm. He watches Kashek with eyes still half-lidded in sleep, a dreamy smile touching the corner of his mouth. The general effect is partly ruined, however, by the way his hair sticks out crazily at all angles.

"Please, don't stop on my account," the mage says approvingly, voice husky with sleep.

Kashek freezes, heart racing and his cheeks burning. He tries to think of something, anything to say, but his mind refuses to provide him with words. He's less embarrassed about his state of half-dress than he is taken aback by Dorian's frank appraisal. It's shockingly forward, more blunt than any of his usual playful flirting.

For a brief, confusing moment, Kashek wonders if he's still asleep, if this is some sort of dream. Then Dorian blinks, yawns, and seems to startle fully awake. He sits up in the bed, too quickly, and the hungry look in his eyes gives way to his usual coy humor. "I know the sight of my face is too glorious to handle this early in the morning, but you don't need to gawk," he remarks playfully.

And just like that the moment is gone, the tension vanishing like a bubble popping. Kashek's mind starts working again, and he brushes aside the disappointment that lingers. Instead, he responds to Dorian's wry remark in kind. "Your face may be glorious, but the hair could use some work," he teases softly, wringing out the damp towel fully and setting it aside to don his shirt once again.

Dorian stretches again as he stands, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand. "Well," he replies, "perfection isn't effortless, and there seems to be a rather troublesome Qunari hogging the water basin." He runs a hand through his rumpled hair and throws Kashek a mischievous smile before stepping to the window and cracking the shutter open to peer outside. The excited chatter of songbirds spills through the open frame, a sure sign that winter is losing its battle with spring.

"Kaffas," Dorian mutters. "It's barely dawn. You Inquisition types certainly don't treasure sleep, do you?"

The Inquisitor shrugs. "Once I'm up, I'm up. You can sleep longer if you wish. I'll come and wake you when it's time to go."

Dorian shakes his head, turning his head to look at something down the street outside. "Too late now, I suppose. I'm awake, for good or ill."

There is something in the way the early dawn light from the window illuminates Dorian's features, the sun outlining his profile in perfect silhouette. Kashek's pulse starts to race again and the awkwardness returns in an unexpected flood. For a few long moments, he can only stand and stare with a sort of awestruck fondness.

The silence holds for too long. Dorian turns and catches Kashek's gaze, puzzled. The unspoken question in his eyes fades as a smug little grin settles on his lips.

Abruptly self-conscious of his staring, Kashek glances down and away. His eyes come to rest on the wash basin, the water now cloudy. "I'll go fetch fresh warm water downstairs," he blurts suddenly. He picks up the basin and pitcher to leave, only to be met with a latched door and his arms full.

"Allow me," Dorian says. The humor dancing in his eyes and the silken amusement in his voice prove that he knows the reason for Kashek's awkwardness. The mage practically preens as he crosses the room, opening the door with a casual flair.

"Thank you," Kashek murmurs and slips through the doorway, water sloshing out onto his arms as he wills his burning cheeks to return to normal before he's seen downstairs. A futile wish, really.

Luckily, he avoids running into anyone except a tavern maid on his way down the stairs. The lass stares up at him, eyes wide. She smiles nervously, then offers to dump the basin and bring fresh water. He gratefully accepts and thanks the girl, then heads back up to the room.

Dorian is seated in the rickety stool before the wash table, having produced a small hand mirror from somewhere to groom himself. Comb in hand, he looks up when Kashek enters, and raises an eyebrow at the Inquisitor's empty hands.

"A serving girl will bring fresh water soon," he explains, heart still pounding. More to occupy his mind than anything, he crosses the small room and lifts his pack onto one of the mattresses. The contents have gotten jumbled during their travel, and could use some rearranging. Pulling the items out one by one, he begins sorting and re-stowing them more securely.

Dorian returns to an attempt at taming his hair with the comb and a small jar of some sort of pomade. Kashek can smell it even where he sits, an earthy sweet scent with the tang of some herb underneath. It's a familiar aroma by now, one that is unmistakably Dorian.

Kashek chides himself for his wandering thoughts and resolutely sets himself to his task. But he pauses when he withdraws the simple wooden box carefully stowed at the bottom of the bag. Even Dorian stops, turning to stare at it.

In his grief after Adamant, Kashek had nearly forgotten the amulet they purchased at the Black Emporium.

Resisting the impulse to open the box and touch the amulet contained within, Kashek stows it safely in his bag once again. The unsettling tingle in his left hand and forearm has become a familiar, constant sensation now. The impulse to hold that gem is intense, just to quiet the energy that crackles under his skin for a few moments. But after the incident in Kirkwall, Kashek is all too leery of recklessly using unknown magical objects.

"When we get back to Skyhold, I'd like to begin studying that immediately," Dorian says quietly.

Kashek nods. "But with caution." Caution was what had prompted him to leave the amulet safely in his pack at camp while they lay siege to Adamant.

Dorian's mouth curls into a wry grin, voice laden with playful sarcasm. "And when have I ever given you the impression that I am anything but utterly careful?"

"Should I make a list?" Kashek teases.

With an affronted gasp, Dorian shakes his head. "Inquisitor, I'm shocked and appalled at such vile slander."

"It's only slander if it isn't true," Kashek replies amiably, stowing away the last few items in the pack and tying it securely shut once again. "Or am I recalling something incorrectly about our encounter with those bandits yesterday, Ser 'Set Everything Afire First And Ask Questions Later'?"

That gets a proper laugh from the mage, who finishes styling his hair and closes the jar of pomade. "I _did_ apologize for setting the loot on fire in the scuffle." He gives a haughty sniff. " _You_ try throwing flames around sometime. It's not always the most well-behaved of elements, you know." With a shake of his head, Dorian stands to stash his items in his own bag. "Besides, I'm only helping you by causing trouble. You do so love being the voice of reason, and I wouldn't be so rude as to take that from you."

A soft knock at the door interrupts before Kashek can reply. It's the serving maid with the empty basin and a new pitcher of warm water. She nods politely, but nervously, slipping into the room and wordlessly dropping off the items before fleeing.

Dorian watches the girl go, the door creaking shut behind her. "Whatever did you say to that girl?"

"Nothing," Kashek sighs. "Either she knows I'm the Inquisitor, or it's because I'm Qunari. It wouldn't be the first time my race made a human skittish," he points out. With a nod at the basin, he adds. "While you wash up, I'll see what's for breakfast downstairs. Come and meet me when you're ready?"

Dorian raises an eyebrow. "Not going to stay and watch?"

The flush that has finally left his cheeks comes rushing back, along with a warm flicker in his chest. "Not if you plan on leaving here today," he replies quietly.

For once, he manages to catch the mage off-guard. A look of surprise crosses Dorian's face before he manages to compose himself again.

"I'll see you at breakfast," Kashek says into the small silence. He quickly slips on his long leather jacket and gloves, then secures his coin purse to his belt to buy food downstairs.

As Kashek's hand reaches for the doorknob, Dorian speaks, the teasing note in his voice replaced with a quiet seriousness. "Wait." When he looks up, his eyes are shadowed. "I don't know when we'll next be alone, and I need to tell you something."

Kashek's mouth goes dry, a heavy weight suddenly pressing on his chest. He halts, hand freezing in place on the doorknob. Slowly, he turns. "Yes?"

"About Adamant. When we fell into the chasm, into the Fade..." Dorian stares down at his hands, his voice growing thick with restrained anguish. "I thought you were done for. You sent me ahead, and then didn't follow. For just a moment, I was certain you wouldn't. I thought, 'this is it, this is where I finally lose him forever.'" He looks up, eyes turbulent as winter storm clouds. "I feared you'd just... fallen, that you lay broken on those stones while I was stuck an entire reality away."

For a second, Kashek hardly dares breathe. It's perhaps the closest Dorian has come to expressing it in words, to reassuring Kashek that the mage truly feels as he does. That this is more than just playful companionship for Dorian, too.

After a moment, Dorian takes a long, shaky breath. He seems on the verge of continuing to speak, but he instead glances away and turns to finish closing his pack.

Kashek's feet move without thought, carrying him the short distance to where Dorian stands. His arms slide around Dorian's waist, pulling him close, back to chest. The mage's hands settle over his own where they lace together against Dorian's stomach. For a few moments, they stand silently like that, until Dorian twists in his arms. He's smiling now, a soft wistful expression that makes Kashek long to know the troubled thoughts beneath the joy, and to soothe them away.

"I fear you won't be rid of me that easily," Kashek says quietly. "If there had been a way to escape that fall other than sliding through that rift, I'd have taken it. The Fade was... difficult. I'm sorry you had to go through it with me."

"I'm not sorry I was there with you."

It's not a confession, not quite. But there is a gentle look in those eyes that sets Kashek's heart to racing again.

Perhaps Dorian notices. His mouth curls into a wry smile. "But perhaps we could avoid visiting there again? The Fade is not exactly where I'd like to build a vacation home."

The ephemeral moment is broken, fading in the face of Dorian's usual drollness like mist in the morning sun. Still, the quiet humor that replaces it is not entirely a bad thing. "Deal," Kashek grins. "I should get breakfast though, and leave you to wash."

Unthinking, he leans in for a small goodbye kiss, then hesitates, remembering Dorian's indecisive push-and-pull of the night before. _What if I'm pressing him too far, too fast?_ And so he shifts course, turning to place a light kiss on Dorian's cheek instead.

It's a pleasant surprise when the mage's cool fingertips touch his cheeks, gently pulling Kashek's lips to his own.

Dorian's kisses have a language all their own, one that Kashek is learning all too eagerly. But whether playful, ardent, slow and sensual, or fiercely greedy, they all share one thing in common. His kisses always tease. He'll initiate the touch, only to pull away a few moments later, pause a second, and return. And just when he seems hungriest, he'll break away entirely. It inevitably leaves Kashek yearning for more, hungry and flushed with need. Kashek can't tell if the teasing is deliberate, meant to drive him mad with longing, or if it's a natural result of Dorian's hesitancy. He suspects the latter, but the mage is rather effectively achieving the former nonetheless.

Today is no exception. It starts gently, almost cautious, then his lips grow more certain and deliberate. But when Kashek responds, pressing further, Dorian retreats. His hands slide down to rest on the Inquisitor's chest, his head bowed and forehead resting lightly against Kashek's collarbone. The mage takes three long breaths, then slips out of Kashek's arms. Still, he smiles, eyes sparkling as he steps away. "So you won't forget me until I rejoin you," he teases with a coy grin.

"Small chance of that," Kashek murmurs, recollecting himself.

"I do try," Dorian replies, crossing to the wash basin. "I won't be long," he adds. "I'll be down shortly."

Still trying to slow his pulse and return his thoughts to normal, Kashek nods and leaves the room.

 

* * *

 

"That is the soonest it can be done?" Cassandra's voice is dark with annoyance as Kashek enters the common room. There are a handful of other patrons scattered throughout the room, eating breakfast, but Cassandra commands attention where she stands near the doorway. A young human lad stands before her, making a nervous, placating bow.

The boy's response is quieter than the Seeker's question, too low for Kashek to make out the words as he crosses the room, but his tone is one of apology.

"Fine," Cassandra sighs. "Midday it is."

As Kashek approaches, the boy makes his escape and darts out the door of the inn. She glances up with a frown. "Apparently only one blacksmith in town is willing to work today to re-shoe my horse, and he is booked until midday."

"Only one?"

"The Comte's wedding is tomorrow, but the entire city apparently celebrates today. There is some sort of festival going on, and the other blacksmiths refuse to work during it."

As if to punctuate her words, a commotion from outside makes them both turn toward the door. Kashek pushes it open, to find a pair of men loading a wagon with crates of goods. The noisy clatter that caught their attention was one crate falling from the back of the wooden cart. Cole suddenly stands from a nearby bench and rushes over, bending to help the men pick up the scattered items. Kashek wonders if the boy will let the men remember the encounter, or if they'll later puzzle over how they managed to recollect everything so quickly.

Kashek shrugs to Cassandra's irritation, leaning against the open doorjamb to watch the merchants reload the crate. "Well, not much to do about it. After your horse is re-shod, then we'll get back on the road to Skyhold. A few hour's delay is not such a terrible thing."

"We must return to Skyhold and determine our next course of action," Cassandra insists.

Kashek doesn't need to point out the obvious, but he does nonetheless. "Leliana may make it back to Skyhold sooner, but Cullen and the rest won't return for a week after we arrive."

"Still," Cassandra grimaces. "I despise waiting."

"A fact that surprises no one," Dorian's tone is lightly mocking as he approaches from behind, peering between them to look outside. "Waiting for what, may I ask?"

"The only available blacksmith won't re-shoe her horse until noon," Kashek says before Cassandra can grumble further, He turns his head to glance at Dorian as he explains. "A city-wide festival preceding the Comte's wedding seems to have shut down most of the shops."

A slow grin starts to spread on Dorian's face, and Kashek can see the glimmer of an idea taking root. The mage's cloud-gray eyes are full of calculated mischief when he remarks lightly, "I wonder if we could find a replacement buckle for one of my boots, if we're to be delayed anyway?" His sigh is perhaps a touch too theatrical. "One of the buckles broke two days ago, and it's been driving me mad ever since. A new one won't match, but I'll just have to suffer the indignity until Skyhold."

Kashek raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps if your boots didn't have a dozen buckles each, you might not have that problem."

"And wear those dreadful Fereldan sock-like monstrosities?" Dorian scoffs. "Never."

Beside them, Cassandra rolls her eyes at their banter. "Do what you must," she says wearily. "I'll remain here until I can take the horse in. When Varric and the Iron Bull awaken, I'll inform them where you've gone."

"We'll be back by noon," Dorian calls cheerfully with a wave, and gestures Kashek to follow him out of the inn.

Cole sees them go. For a moment, Kashek wonders if the boy will tag along. Then he realizes the foolishness of that thought. The spirit is all too aware of what passes between himself and Dorian, probably more than even Kashek. As obvious as Dorian's excuse for privacy was to Cassandra, it would be an even flimsier defense against Cole's abilities.

While they slip past the laden cart outside, Kashek turns to ask, "Is your boot even really damaged?"

"Of course," Dorian replies with a grin. "I would never lie to the Seeker. I've seen what happened with Varric, and I value my life far too much."

A chuckle bursts from Kashek at the reply. "A wise choice. Well, let's see if we can find you a replacement."

 

* * *

 

 It does not take them too terribly long to find one cobbler who is open for business, after asking a few passersby. As ever, stares and whispers follow them. Whether the presence of the Inquisitor has become common knowledge here, or if it's just the sight of a Qunari in their midst, Dorian can't tell.

 _Will I ever become accustomed to the gawking?_ Dorian wonders to himself, curious how Kashek can bear the constant scrutiny.

Then he stops in his tracks, so suddenly that a man hurrying down the cobbled street behind Dorian nearly collides with him. The man curses under his breath, swerves to avoid Dorian, and rushes away.

Beside him, the Inquisitor pauses, a faint crease of worry between his brows. "Is something wrong?"

Dorian forces a nervous smile, though his mouth is dry and there is a sudden roaring in his ears. Such a small thing, to cause such panic, an idle thought like that. But there had been something new and altogether too frightening in his question to himself, a notion that there would someday be an "ever", with Kashek. An assumption made so thoughtlessly, so naturally that he didn't even realize it until it had already passed. Not a deliberate daydream, a "what if someday", but a casual deep-down certainty, as sure as the knowledge that the sun would rise tomorrow.

He takes a breath, and the pounding in his ears subsides. Forcing the moment of panic aside, what lies underneath it is a warmth that still fills him with a sense of awestruck wonder.

"It's fine," Dorian says, allowing himself a small smile. At his side, his hand twitches, longing to reach out. But not here, not where the Inquisitor's status may be known. Not in Orlais, where gossip spreads faster than disease among rats.

Kashek stands still a moment longer, his gaze doubtful, but he doesn't press the matter.

The cobbler's shop is easy to find. The man charges an extra fee for working on the day of the festival, but performs the repair quickly enough. He even happens to possess a buckle that is a fairly close match to the damaged one.

When Dorian reaches into his pouch for the coins, his fingertips brush a heavier bit of metal tucked there. A pin he'd purchased in Val Royeaux, before the incident about his pendant. The brooch is a solid piece, a replica of a shield worked in silver, gold, and copper. It had filled Dorian's palm with a cool weight, a near-perfect match to Kashek's favored shield. The Inquisitor isn't much for jewelry, but Dorian had thought it could be converted into a belt buckle or some other functional piece that Kashek might enjoy, after their return to Skyhold. He imagines the Inquisitor's flustered acceptance of the gift, and smiles to himself.

He pays the cobbler for his work and they emerge from the shop. It is barely mid-morning yet. The Inquisitor suggests returning to the inn, in case Cassandra managed to get her horse re-shod early.

"She said noon, and I fully intend to claim your time until then," Dorian declares. "It's not as if they'll leave without the Inquisitor," he points out. Reluctantly, Kashek relents, and they choose a longer path back to the inn that takes them through the central plaza. They still attract stares, of course. Impossible not to, when Kashek stands a full head taller than most of the crowd. It seems Qunari are even rarer in Orlais than they are in Ferelden. That, and a handful of overheard whispers betray that at least some townsfolk do know the Herald of Andraste walk in their midst. A few even make reverent gestures, to which Kashek nods somberly despite the recent rediscovery of memories that confirm he is not the Maker's chosen.

Not that Kashek ever truly believed that, not fully.

Indeed, that doubt about his status as the Herald was the very subject of conversation when Dorian felt the first stirring of attraction for Kashek, after all. Had that truly been the better part of a year ago? Dorian can still recall every detail of that scene, the awful weather of the Storm Coast causing the dawn air to press a damp chill against his skin, the sky slowly fading from deep blue to rust as the sun rose.

And the first time he'd really noticed the flecks of copper in the Inquisitor's green-gold eyes, a gaze that had been heavy with doubt and vulnerability, spurring the early forbears of the shivery warmth that now permanently lived in his heart.

Dorian's musings are broken when they arrive at the festival. Val Firmin contains one large central market square, with four other smaller plazas ringing it like spokes on a wheel. The celebrations have consumed all of them.

The place is a riot of sound and color, with temporary vendor stalls, a puppet show in one corner and a troupe of acrobats on the other. The aroma of various foods is almost overwhelming, making Dorian realize they left the inn before even eating breakfast. A few coppers buys them each a trio of glazed pastry fritters on a skewer. They wander the square, pausing for a time to watch the colorfully-attired tumblers perform while they eat their unusual breakfast. Dense, sweet, and studded with dried fruit, they're surprisingly filling for such small bites. The decadent treats also manage to coat fingers and faces with their sticky icing, leaving them both in fits of laughter as they try to wipe away the residue, only to spread the mess further. In the end, they resort to licking their fingers clean like mischievous children who've filched a honeycomb from the kitchens.

Seeing Kashek's eyes free of worry, even just for a brief time, is a good thing. It makes Dorian wonder how things could be, if the fate of the world didn't rest on the shoulders of the Inquisitor, if sheer happenstance had never forced Kashek into this position.

But if Corypheus had never torn open the sky, they never would have met. Dorian would have had no reason to travel south. He'd likely be sitting in some seedy bar in a random Tevinter city, avoiding the men his father sent to find him and wasting his life away. Despite the danger, he has to admit that his life with the Inquisition is a better one than he has known since his early time at the Alexius estate, in those brief golden years before Livia's death.

Suddenly, he feels guilty. It's beyond selfish, to be even a little bit glad that this crisis fell upon them. Untold miseries have befallen Thedas in the wake of the Breach. It's unbelievably greedy and foolish to be grateful for anything that has come from those horrors.

If he were given the ability to choose whether the Breach ever existed, Dorian knows he'd never see it open. Even if it meant the rest of his life would be a meaningless waste, spent in ever-greater debauchery to mask a simmering anger and slow, spiteful self-destruction. But there is no changing the past, despite Dorian and Gereon's best efforts to warp the fabric of time. The madness at Redcliffe proved the idiocy of meddling with that sort of magic. Never again.

And so he knows he should not feel remorseful about claiming what joys he can in this world. Still, the small tug of guilt remains nonetheless, a tiny constant annoyance in the back of his thoughts. It is the same small voice that reminds him, now and then, that this happiness was never meant to be his. A voice that is little more than a ghost of his homeland's disdain, growing daily fainter but never quite abandoning him completely.

Their meandering path has taken them to the edge of the market square. As Kashek discards the wooden skewer in a refuse bin, he laughs when the stick clings to his persistently-sugary fingertips. But at Dorian's silent pensiveness, his merriment fades. "What's wrong?"

Dorian banishes the worries, pressing them aside for later as he tosses his own skewer into the bin. "It's nothing." A quick glance at the sky shows that the sun is creeping higher overhead. "We'd best start heading back."

The Inquisitor signs softly, but nods his reluctant agreement. As they leave the bustling plaza behind and fall in step beside one another, he adds, "Thank you. For making me leave the inn, for bringing me out here."

Dorian shrugs. "I thought a distraction might serve you well."

"It did." The Inquisitor squares his shoulders, holding himself with greater confidence than he has in days. Though Adamant took its toll, and a dark sleepless shadow still hangs beneath his eyes, Kashek seems more himself than he has been in a week.

"Good." For a few minutes, they walk in companionable silence through the streets, away from the center of the town. As they venture further toward the outskirts, the crowds become thinner. It seems the entire populace of the city has found their way to the central plaza. An occasional passerby hurries along, usually with an awestruck stare for the Qunari that walks their streets.

After a time, Dorian breaks the silence. He casts the Inquisitor a sly look as he admits, "I did have my own purely selfish reasons for whisking you away, I must confess."

Kashek rises to the bait, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, and what might those be?"

"To steal some of the Inquisitor's valuable time for my own," Dorian replies as they pause at an intersection, gain their bearings, and turn down a side street. "Greedy, I know. You could have remained at the inn, planning our next course of action with Cassandra. But I saw a chance and claimed it." Mustering his courage, he adds, "I rather wanted to remember what your smile looked like, in the sunlight."

Kashek doesn't say anything, but the redness that tops his cheeks is reply enough.

The sight kindles a now-familiar bubbliness in Dorian. Will making the Inquisitor blush ever cease to lighten his spirit? He laughs lightly as they turn to slip through a long, narrow alley, a shortcut to the next street over. The buildings press close here, the space too slim for two to walk abreast. The sun is not yet quite overhead, and the lonely alley lies in deep shadow.

With his spirits high, Dorian feels suddenly impetuous. The Inquisitor walks before him, but stops when Dorian's hand clutches at his wrist, turning Kashek toward him with a gentle tug. The collar of the Inquisitor's drakeskin jacket makes a convenient handle to pull him closer. In the dark shade of the space, they are virtually hidden from the sparsely-populated side streets, as long as no one ventures down this particular alley. Dorian's back presses against the cool brick of the wall as he tugs Kashek toward him.

The small, pleased sound of surprise that slips from the Inquisitor makes Dorian smile, placing playful kisses on the corners of Kashek's lips, on his chin, his jaw. His skin tastes like the icing on the dumplings they ate for breakfast, decadently sweet. The Inquisitor's arm wraps around his waist, sliding between his back and the wall to hold him close. His other hand cradles the back of Dorian's head, fingers tangling in his hair. Dorian laughs softly, until Kashek silences the sound with his own hungry, urgent mouth.

Without warning, a building's side door flies open, scarcely two paces from where they stand. Startled, Dorian's head whips around at the sound. A cat darts out the door and away down the alley.

Standing in the doorway, a young elven girl gapes at them, eyes slowly widening. Her mouth falls open in a soft exclamation of surprise.

For several very long, very painful moments, the tableau holds, all three of them frozen in place. The panic that closes the back of Dorian's throat and chills his bones is purely instinctive, impossible to fight. When the sudden paralysis releases him, there is no conscious thought behind his next action, just sheer reflex. He scrambles to push Kashek away, turning aside. As he strides away, fleeing the scene, the door closes audibly behind him.

Half a second afterward, the sudden burst of fear begins to subside, though it relinquishes its hold slowly, reluctantly. In its place, as conscious thought returns, shame takes root. Not for the kiss, but a disgust with himself at how he'd so quickly shoved the Inquisitor aside and fled, callow and humiliated.

His mind is a conflicted mess as Dorian strides out into the street, heedless if the Inquisitor follows. Half of him wants to throw caution to the wind, to declare to the world that there is no shame to be had in this, to toss aside those longstanding fears and misgivings that had made him scramble to run away. An angry part of him longs to be able to share a touch, a kiss, in the open sunlight in the middle of the street, just as any other couple might.

Easier said than done. And even if he could, there is so much more at stake here than just two souls. The girl is sure to gossip, especially after Dorian's embarrassing reaction. No way of knowing if she'd recognized the Herald of Andraste, but even if she hadn't, enough people had noticed Kashek this morning and there were few enough Qunari about. She would eventually put two and two together, spreading the scandal of the Inquisitor's outrageous alleyway tryst. It wouldn't take long to identify the Inquisitor's pet Tevinter as the other player in the scene.

No doubt the story would grow ever more lascivious in the telling, too. Eventually, it would reach the nobility. Any juicy tidbit about the Inquisitor was inevitably certain to spread like wildfire.

_What future alliance or negotiation have I just sullied? What leverage have I handed to our enemies?_

With a depressing certainty, Dorian realizes his utter idiocy. Just a few hours ago, he'd been idly contemplating some sort of future with Kashek, but that is the foolish, irrational daydream of a child. He'd thought maybe someday, when this was all over, there would be a small sliver of hope. But the reality is far grimmer. Even if they manage to defeat Corypheus, the Inquisition has already grown too large, garnered too much power. It will remain, and Kashek with it.

Dorian will always be a shameful burden to the Inquisitor. There is no such thing as "when this is over", not truly. The Game of politics never ends.

The Inquisitor's footsteps echo behind him, trailing in Dorian's brisk wake. Kashek follows in silence until they've left the cobbled city streets behind, stepping onto the blessedly unoccupied dirt-packed road that leads to the inn. Only then does Kashek speak. His voice is not raised, nor angry. It's almost gentle, how he calls Dorian's name.

Dorian ignores it, knowing what he will see if he glances behind – Kashek's tender, patient sympathy that cuts to the bone. If he turns around, it will break him.

"Dorian, please."

There is a plaintive note in that "please" that twists a knife in his belly. His steps falter, then stop, but doesn't dare look back. He crosses his arms resolutely over his chest and stares forward down the lane. When he replies, his voice betrays him, shaky and thick.

"I apologize for my behavior," he says, the formality of the words a shield.

"I don't want your apology, Dorian. I just want you to _talk_ to me." Kashek circles to stand before him, but Dorian keeps his gaze focused down at a large white stone lying beside the road. If he looks into those eyes, the careful wall he's building will crumble.

"There's nothing to discuss," Dorian says, trying to keep his voice carefully flat. He fails, but clings to simple words. "This was a foolish idea from the beginning, Inquisitor." The formal title is another barrier, placed very deliberately between them.

"The festival?"

The words choke him, but Dorian forces them out. "All of it. Everything." His voice falters. He can't continue this speech, not   right now. He isn't prepared. Still refusing to meet the Inquisitor's eyes, he steps aside and around the Qunari to finish the walk to the inn. Privacy is what he needs, a place to quietly fall apart and put himself together again.

Kashek's arm darts out, blocking his path, hand flat against Dorian's chest. His voice is rough, the words measured and quiet, cold and heavy. "If you're trying to say what I think you are, the least you can do is look me in the eye while you say it."

It's true, but it's still unbelievably difficult to turn his head and look into Kashek's face. Still, Dorian does so, willing himself to callousness, shutting his heart behind a door. He swallows back the lump that forms in the back of his throat. "This was all a mistake," he says flatly. "A mistake that can't continue." The words burn his tongue, fill his chest with glass.

"Why?" Kashek's voice breaks on the response. Unshed tears glitter in anguished eyes, like sharp-edged green gemstones. "Because of one serving girl?"

Sudden, irrational anger blooms within Dorian, infuriated at the Inquisitor's stubborn single-minded refusal to see reason. Why must he always continue to fight when a battle is futile? Why must Dorian be the one to point out the obvious? The resentment bubbles up, a wellspring of agitation.

Good. Anger is easier than pain. "It's never just one serving girl," he snaps, "and you know that as well as I do."

"I don't care!"

"Perhaps you should." Dorian takes a long, deep breath. "You balance on a razor's edge, Inquisitor. The fate of Thedas may very well rest in the hands of the Inquisition, and its strength will be measured by its allies. If this is allowed to continue, word will spread about us." His voice falters for a moment. "About me. And it _will_ cost you vital alliances."

Kashek is speechless, jaw set firmly as he clenches his teeth. The tears that threatened earlier finally spill free. He withdraws the hand that barred Dorian's path, but doesn't deny the cruel words.

Unable to bear those eyes any longer, Dorian stares down at the ground again. "Celene's peace talks are in less than two months," he says quietly. "You cannot be romantically entangled with 'the Vint' when you attend, for the sake of the Inquisition."

"That's not how I see you. You know that."

Dorian's lips twist into a bitter smile. Cutting, that knowledge. "I do. And we both also know it's still exactly how your potential Orlesian allies view me. I'm a liability to you, if this goes any further." Always a liability. Unfit for his family's legacy, and an inappropriate companion for the Inquisitor. "It can't go on."

"And you'll make that choice without me?"

"If I must."

"But I--" Kashek stops, closes his mouth with a sharp snap, and turns away. He takes a shaky breath, exhales. The word he breathes is so faint that Dorian barely hears. "...Cruel."

"I've been called worse." Dorian's sarcasm is sharp, scathing, when turned inward at himself.

"Not you. This... everything. The Anchor, the Breach, all of it. If it were just us..."

A viciously painful thought, that dream. If they were just two normal men, perhaps someday it would have been a possibility, some sort of happy future. "But it will never be just the two of us," Dorian speaks the harsh truth cruelly. He closes his eyes, still holding his arms tightly crossed over himself, as if it will help keep him from breaking apart. "Never. You and the Inquisition are inseparable, a single entity. The game you play is larger than two hearts, regardless of what those hearts may feel." _And I will break them both,_ he thinks bitterly. For a few moments, he keeps his eyes tightly closed, focusing only on breathing past the tightness that seems to bind his chest.

He startles when he feels a faint brush against his cheek. A familiar touch, even through the rough leather of the Inquisitor's gloves. Dorian's eyes flutter open to meet Kashek's agonized gaze. When the Qunari speaks, his words are barely more than a whisper. "And what do those hearts feel, exactly?" His thumb brushes Dorian's cheek lightly. "Please... just tell me. Give me that much."

Dorian blinks, breath frozen, savoring this last gentle touch. He clears his throat, his voice a hoarse rasp. "Don't make this harder than it has to be, Inquisitor."

With those words, he pulls away. For a brief instant, Dorian considers one last goodbye kiss. But he fears his resolve will falter if he tempts himself further. No, a clean cut. Wordlessly, he turns and walks the opposite direction, back to town. He can't face the rest of the Inquisitor's companions, or the sight of that tiny, uncomfortable cot that would mark their last night sleeping beside one another.

He blinks away the stinging tears that threaten, and walks down the road alone.

 

* * *

 

Dorian isn't even yet halfway to drunk when Cole finds him.

"Don't leave," the boy says quietly as he takes the seat next to Dorian at the bar of the small pub.

Dorian frowns into his mug. "Shouldn't you all be partway to Sahrnia by now?" he asks sourly.

"There was a delay at the blacksmith," the spirit says calmly. The matter-of-fact darkness in his tone sends a shiver down Dorian's spine.

"Cole," he asks warningly. "Did you have something to do with that delay?"

As explanation, the boy leans his elbows on the counter, resting his head on his hands and ducking to hide his face beneath his hat. "It was the only way to give you time, time to come back, to ease the hurt."

"I'm not coming back," Dorian replies bitterly. "Not now, at any rate." He couldn't bear Kashek's presence right now, salt water on an open wound. _And how can I face the rest of the party, with them knowing what happened?_

"They don't," Cole says.

Dorian startles, then sighs. "You should really stop answering people's thoughts, Cole." He shakes his head. "What do you mean, 'they don't'?"

"He told us something else. 'Dorian left something at the cobbler's, went back to retrieve it.'"

Dorian blinks. "He _lied_? Well enough that they believed it?"

The boy nods, a sharp sudden motion like a bird's. "Yes. But I knew. I could feel it, the sundering that split the song in two. Without harmony, melody is bland, broken, banal, and harmony is aimless all alone."

The words cut, but Dorian pushes the pain down with another long gulp of ale. "I thought you couldn't read the Inquisitor," he points out sharply. "Too bright, you said."

Cole shakes his head. "Not always. But when the hurt is strongest, it still sings to me. Quiet, hidden beneath the Anchor's call, but there."

"It'll go away in time," Dorian replies grimly, downing the rest of his drink. "He'll cope."

The boy watches him for a moment. "Will you leave us?"

For answer, Dorian raises an eyebrow. "Can't you just dive into my brain and tell?" He gestures to the barkeep for another mug. He wonders if Cole conceals his presence from the rest of the pub's patrons, making Dorian seem he's talking to himself. He finds it hard to care.

"You asked me not to."

That brings a small smile to Dorian's lips. "Well, that much is true. Though I'm certain you know the answer." He shakes his head and drops another coin on the counter as the barkeep refills his mug. Dorian downs half of it in one long gulp. "No. Unless the Inquisitor asks me to leave, or it seems to be harming more than helping, I will stay. Our cause is more important than my feelings."

Cole is silent for a few moments. "You choose the pain," he says eventually. "You were happy. _'Lips that taste like sugar cakes, a special smile just for me.'_ But you turned good memories to bad, happiness curdled into hurt on purpose."

Dorian sighs deeply into his mug. "It's complicated, Cole. Sometimes you harm yourself for the sake of others."

"But you hurt him, too."

"Kaffas," Dorian swears violently under his breath, Cole's words tearing a new hole in his chest. The boy flinches at the outburst, or perhaps at the sudden flash of pain from Dorian. "I know that." He rubs his eyes with one weary hand. Stumbling for the words, he tries to explain. Anyone else would have gotten a quick, harsh dismissal, or a sarcastic deflection. But the kid knows no better than to ask such brutal questions. "I choose both of our pain for the sake of everyone else," he finally says.

At this, Cole ponders for a moment, then nods. "Small suffering to heal the larger wound."

Dorian sighs again, "Something like that." He tosses back the rest of his mug and gestures for another.

"It could be both," Cole says quietly, peering sidelong at him from under the wide brim of his hat. "You worry that others will judge him. But they can't judge if they don't know."

The words dredge up old aches, and Dorian shakes his head. "No. Even if the Inquisitor was capable of keeping a secret."

 _"I'll never be a dirty little secret again,_ " Cole intones in that eerily gentle voice that echoes Dorian's own thoughts.

Dorian grimaces, sliding another coin across the counter in exchange for a refill. "You should go back, Cole, before they leave."

As he utters the words, a realization crashes over Dorian. "Kashek lied. Told everyone I was delayed." He swears under his breath. "He expects me to return." _I can't. Not now._ He shakes his head, pleading with the boy. "Cole, you have to tell him. Just tell him I'll meet them at Skyhold."

"No!" The outburst is sudden, almost violent. "I won't. It would hurt him. I can't." The spirit tosses his head from side to side in denial, then sinks his face into his hands. "And if I don't, it causes you pain instead. Trapped between, pain everywhere. It's too much."

The boy's misery is too awful to bear. Dorian tosses back his new beer in several long draughts, then sets the mug down with a heavy, angry thunk. "You win." He sighs, twisting his mouth into a bitter grimace. "Let's go. If I did delay, it would hurt no less when I return to Skyhold anyway. Best get used to the scar soon."

He stands, a little lightheaded but certainly not yet drunk. A pity, that. Wordlessly, Cole follows him back to the inn.

Once there, he finds the rest of the group standing outside the stables, with the exception of Cassandra and her horse. His own mount has been saddled and stands with the others.

Dorian casts a glance at the group, but carefully avoids meeting the Inquisitor's eyes. It doesn't take long to slip upstairs and gather his things, donning the hideous coat and collecting his staff. Kashek did not touch Dorian's bag. It still rests on the mattress where he left it. The bed that still lies unmade, the blankets rumpled from their slumber. It slices like broken glass, this reminder. A memory of what won't happen again. What _can't_ happen again.

Still, his traitorous mind can't help but recall that simple, pleasant warmth, Kashek's presence both solid and comforting. A brief glimpse at what it might be like to feel that sort of warm security every night.

With a long, deep breath, Dorian turns aside and lets the door close behind him. Let those feelings remain abandoned behind that door, let him leave those foolish dreams in the past.

That resolve lasts all of a few minutes. The stairs are a little tricky, his balance still a bit uncertain from his failed midday attempt to drink away the pain. But he steadies himself, forces a small smile onto his face, and goes outside to face what awaits.

He can't avoid Kashek's worried gaze for long. Those wounded eyes are needles forced under his skin, sharp and excruciating. Dorian feels his usual sardonic smile turn stiff, but keeps it in place.

"Sorry, met a bit of a delay," he murmurs as he walks up to his horse and settles his pack into the beast's saddlebags.

Bull and Varric are both too clever to be fooled, but they don't question. Not now, anyway. Bull stares at Dorian for three long seconds though, his one visible eye narrowed suspiciously. Still a spy to the bone, apparently. Dorian wonders what Bull suspects. That he slunk away to sell Inquisition secrets? Meeting with Venatori contacts, a mole all along?

For the first time, Dorian realizes the truth may be the least harmful option, for once. Someone will need to explain to Bull later, before the Qunari decides Dorian is more of a risk than an asset and takes matters into his own hands.

He's saved further awkwardness by Cassandra's return, however. Without delay, they mount their horses and get on the road. Dorian's beast is at the head of the group, beside the Seeker's. He tries to distract himself by baiting Cassandra with a jest, but all he can feel are Kashek's haunted eyes cutting painful wounds into his back.


	4. The Frostbacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unfortunate encounter splits Dorian and the Inquisitor from the rest of the group. Together, they must struggle to survive the harsh Frostbacks while confronting the uncomfortable rift between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the tropes are turned up to 11. Maximum tropening.

Every moment hurts. Every minute, each excruciating second. Like a sharp thorn trapped in his boot, Kashek feels the pain worming its way ever deeper as they ride along the dusty road. The infrequent rain has stopped, leaving the spring days cool but dry, growing colder as they ascend into the foothills of the Frostbacks. It's ill-fitting, as storm clouds seem more appropriate than the bright sunlight.

He and Dorian don't speak to one another, barely look at each other aside from the necessary conversations of travel. Even those few practical words are bittersweet.

Dorian is better at this, at pretending. He shares good-natured jibes with Varric, even teasing Cassandra a few times. But Kashek wonders if anyone else can see how sharp and fragile his smile has become, or recognizes the sour note underneath his friendly banter.

Bull probably does. The Ben-Hassrath spent the first afternoon's ride casting suspicious glances at the mage. Kashek caught Bull staring at him thoughtfully during the ride, too. Not much use keeping secrets from that one. Still, now that he seems to have puzzled it out, Bull keeps his silence on the matter.

Truly, it would be impossible for anyone in the group to completely miss the rift between them. And yet, everyone casually pretends not to notice. Perhaps it is a shadow of the games he's slowly learning to play, the ability to collectively, resolutely ignore the obvious if it is considered distasteful. It still makes Kashek uncomfortable. If it were his choice, he'd air everything out and be done with it. _But it's not my choice. Not entirely,_ he thinks painfully. And so he lets the wound slowly deepen.

Cole has been agonizingly silent, trailing along behind the group, a wretched phantom presence. It's this more than anything that convinces him Dorian's pain is deeper than he lets on. Cole has admitted he does not clearly feel Kashek's pain as keenly as others'. Something to do with the Anchor, presumably. But Dorian's emotions are still capable of buffeting the unlucky spirit. Cole's misery is the canary in a mine, an echo of everything Dorian keeps locked away behind that sparkling, sarcastic smile.

It will be a very long, very difficult journey back to Skyhold.

This evening, they will leave their mounts at a small Inquisition outpost and venture through the Frostbacks on foot the next morning. They take a longer path back to Skyhold, rather than circling around the northern tip of the mountain range. A rift has been spilling demons out into the narrow pass used by Leliana's scouts. It must be closed to ensure the safe passage of crucial information.

It will take days longer to reach Skyhold along that path. Days of this slow-burning, yearning ache.

And yet, if given the choice, he still would not send Dorian away. Selfishly, the pain of keeping him near is still easier to endure than his absence would be.

It might have been bearable, if Dorian had rejected him outright, if he'd just lost interest. But Cole's quiet melancholy is a testament to Dorian's matching pain. It seems so utterly stupid, to suffer on both sides for the sake of these frustrating politics. Still, there is only a painful truth to Dorian's reasoning. Doubtless Josephine would agree. Though she would sympathize, the Ambassador would undoubtedly advise him that their current course was only wise.

That doesn't make it hurt any less.

 

* * *

 

"We are not lost," Cassandra repeats herself, biting off the words sharply.

"Are you certain we aren't just walking around the same peak in circles?" Varric replies, his own voice weary. "I think we've passed that outcropping before." He points upward at the sharp angle of stone that juts out overhead from the stone wall on their left, piercing up between the foliage of the evergreen trees that cluster around them. "Even this crevasse looks familiar." He makes a show of taking two steps to the right and leaning out to peer down into the narrow chasm that slants down along the edge of the path to their right.

"The trees do block the view," Bull notes calmly, trying to diffuse the agitated sparks between the Seeker and the dwarf. He glances above. "I'm tall enough to reach that rock. I'll climb up and see if I can get our bearings."

Dorian is noticeably silent, avoiding the conversation entirely. Being so very close and yet so abrasively distant is suddenly too much to endure for a moment longer. Just a minute or two away to breathe, that's all he needs.

"No," Kashek places a hand on Bull's shoulder. "Those horns will tangle in the tree branches and we'll never get you out." He grins at the Ben-Hassrath as he teases. "Mine are narrower. I'll look."

Kashek slides the strap of his pack off his shoulders, handing the bag to Bull. "Hold this. The last thing we need is for it to get caught in a tree, too."

And before anyone else can protest, Kashek reaches up for a handhold in the slanting angle of stone. He swings himself up, grunting with the effort. The slope of the immense boulder is a shallow incline that arches up directly over his companions below, which he follows upward until it breaks free above the tree line. The late afternoon sun glints painfully on the scattered snow that still dots the Emprise, but he gains his bearings. "Well, we're pointed in the right direction," he calls down.

"I told you," Cassandra mutters to one of the group below.

Kashek stands a bit taller, shielding his eyes with one hand as he looks for any identifying landmarks. There are other stony outcroppings poking jaggedly through the tree canopy, some even taller than the one upon which he stands.

He doesn't even see his attacker. Just a split second of sound, like the angry buzz of an agitated bee, then the sudden impact like a fist slammed hard into his ribcage, just under the arm he uses to shade his eyes.

 _I've been shot,_ he barely has time to realize. Wordlessly, he cries a warning to his companions below. A jolt of energy surges through his veins, blood pumping in preparation for battle. Kashek ducks low, instinct taking over as another crossbow bolt rattles sharply against the stone nearby. He can feel the injury now, a sharp pain and a fierce burning sensation. His foot slips on a patch of something as he tries to scramble back down the rock. Moss, dirt, a bit of bird dung, he'll never know. All he realizes is that he's falling, the thin branches of pine trees snapping and catching on his clothing on the way down.

Those slim branches may be what saved him from a deadly fall, slowing his descent. He still lands badly, his knee wrenched painfully sideways as he hits the ground. The wound in his side is a searing pain now, and he hopes the weapon wasn't poisoned.

His companions crowd around him in shocked concern. Concern, but not wariness.

 _They just think I fell,_ Kashek realizes suddenly. "Enemies!" he shouts, coughing on the word as he regains the breath knocked from him by the fall. "With crossbows."

That galvanizes them into action, and without another word, the group fans out around him, weapons out. Cole flickers out of his field of vision, slipping stealthily into the trees. Bull and Cassandra draw their weapons and take several paces in each direction to watch either side of the path. Varric readies Bianca and looks around for any vantage that will give him a clear shot.

Kashek doesn't want to, but his eyes meet Dorian's worried gaze. The mage stands over him at the ready, balanced lightly on his feet, staff out and crackling with energy. They stare silently at one another for a moment, Dorian's gaze anxious but conflicted. After a moment, he holds out a hand to help Kashek stand.

Understanding hits him suddenly. _They still don't realize I've been shot._ Gritting his teeth, Kashek makes the decision not to tell them. Not yet, not until they are safe. When he coughed, he'd felt the arrowhead scrape painfully against bone. It is trapped on the outside of a rib, just under the skin. It must have glanced off something before it hit, to slow the speed of the bolt. Otherwise it would likely have broken the bone.

But it's not immediately fatal, as the head of the bolt sits now. It will take some time for their attacker or attackers to find them in the brush, but it would be better if they were well gone from this point by then. When they find relative safety, it can be removed and Cassandra can rummage in her pack for the one potion they'd dared to ration themselves from the scant supplies left after Adamant. But not until they find more easily defensible ground.

With his good arm, Kashek takes Dorian's proffered hand with his non-injured one and tries to stand.

Stupid. In his current state, he didn't think to look where he landed. Kashek stumbles when his knee gives out, only to realize he's dangerously close to the edge of their path, the rocky slope angling sharply down to into the dark crevice below. He takes two wild, uneven steps in an attempt to right himself, Dorian's hand still tightly grasping his own and trying unsuccessfully to balance him as he's pulled off-balance as well. Kashek's vision swims as he teeters backward on the precipice, balance wavering. For one frozen moment, he is left to witness the helpless horror on the faces of his companions. His injured knee fails him again, and he feels himself start to go over.

He only has room for one thought. He lets go of Dorian's hand, letting his fingers slide free.

"No!" The look of abject terror in Dorian's eyes pierces him, as sharply as the bolt buried in his side. Dorian lunges and clutches at him in a futile attempt to stop the fall.

Foolish. Kashek weighs twice as much as the mage, and his momentum has already carried him too far.

 _I'm going to kill him, too,_ is the last panicked thought to fly through Kashek's mind as they topple over the edge.

The fall takes an eternity, sliding uncontrollably down the steep stone. His left arm seems to have stopped working entirely now, but he holds tightly to Dorian with his good arm. The mage clings to him as firmly, and the faint blue flickers at the corner of Kashek's vision reveal Dorian's attempt to save them, a shimmering barrier to soften the blows.

Kashek closes his eyes, wondering when they'll hit a stone large enough to snap a spine even through the ever-shifting barrier, or tumble off an edge and shatter bones when they land. He keenly feels every sharp jut of rock, each small shrub clinging to the side of the mountain that they tear free, tumbling painfully down the cliff. The wound on his side tears open, the arrow catching on something and ripping flesh as it twists.

The world darkens abruptly, and Kashek risks opening his eyes. They still tumble downward, but in near-blackness now. Their momentum slows as they slide to a painful stop. Kashek lies still on his back where they landed. His useless, injured left arm is flung casually out to the side. Dorian lies motionless and limp, sprawled atop him.

Icy fear crawls through Kashek. His voice is cracked and hoarse when he speaks. "Dorian?"

The mage groans, and the relief that overwhelms Kashek is enough to banish the pain for a moment. But Dorian remains still for a few seconds, head buried in Kashek's chest, hands clutching onto the edges of his chestplate tightly. When he does move, his motions are the stiff, unsure ones of a man still taking stock of his injuries. He lifts his weight from Kashek's chest, rolling sideways to sit beside him. A dark stain blooms across the side of Dorian's face, a sight that freezes Kashek's breath in his chest.

"Your face," he croaks, coughing again.

Dorian lifts fingertips to touch his cheek gingerly, scowling at the blood on his fingertips. He wipes his cheek clean with the back of a hand. "Just a scrape," he dismisses the injury with a grimace. "Though I can't say I'm thrilled about the scar it'll leave." His attempt at dark humor falls flat. Dorian's brows furrow, eyes heavy with worry as he asks Kashek. "Are you all right? Can you move?"

Suddenly, Kashek realizes that although they lie in dimness, there is just enough light to see. He turns his head to view a long, narrow sliver of light above them, providing a soft of illumination where they rest. It seems they've fallen into part of the network of natural caves that riddle the Frostbacks, and that crack high above is where they slid through.

Gingerly, Kashek reaches over with his good arm to prod the wound from the crossbow. His fingertips touch the splintered, broken shaft where it has snapped off. Barely an inch remains jutting out of his skin. Even the small motion of his hand lightly brushing the wood causes a harsh stab of pain so fierce that Kashek hisses sharply and feels his vision blur for a moment. A sudden wave of nausea turns his stomach, and he takes a long, shallow breath.

Dorian follows the motion with his gaze, his eyes widening when he notices the injury for the first time. He swears, violently and forcefully, in Tevene words that Kashek doesn't know. He kneels beside the Inquisitor, hand reaching out and stopping a fingersbreadth from the splintered wood.

"You were shot?" The question is panicked, a frantic note in the words that Kashek has never heard in Dorian's voice before, not even during his most vulnerable moments. Then Dorian's eyes narrow in anger, his voice rising in accusation this time. "You were shot!? And you said nothing?" He swears again, loudly. "You complete idiot. I wouldn't have helped you stand if you'd told me!" His hands ball tightly into fists as he shakes his head. Even in the dimness, Kashek can see the glimmer of unshed tears in Dorian's eyes. The mage turns away for a moment, closing his eyes and taking a shuddering breath. The tears fall, leaving tracks in the dust that coats them both.

"Don't," Kashek says softly. "Please don't." His vision blurs again, swimming in a wave of vertigo. "Don't be angry."

"I'm not angry," Dorian bites off the words sharply. He shakes his head, as if to banish the worry that lingers in his eyes. With a small gesture, he kindles a flame a few feet away for better light. Dorian's hand reaches out toward Kashek's injured side. "What do I need to do?" The words are crisp, his face carefully expressionless except for those anxious eyes, grey as slate and turbulent as storm-tossed oceans.

Kashek knows the rebuttal is true. Dorian isn't furious. He's scared, and with good reason. That crossbow bolt may have been dislodged or shoved deeper in the fall. A warm moisture is starting to soak his shirt.

Even to his own ears, Kashek's voice is floaty and eerily toneless.   His reply is airy and flat, not even sounding like his own voice. "I'm bleeding. The wound needs to be closed before I lose too much blood. But first you need to cut out the arrowhead. Don't pull the shaft. Feel down along it to find the head and slice it free. Carefully. It may have slipped between my ribs in the fall. If you push it deeper, it can puncture a lung and I'll die." He should be more worried about that, he knows, but the world is starting to go a bit fuzzy about the edges.

Almost, Kashek would have expected Dorian to respond with his biting wit, deflecting the seriousness of the situation with a joke.

But instead, he swallows hard and lurches to action. The mage's belt knife miraculously survived the fall, snapped snugly into its sheath. It's the only blade they have left. It seems Kashek's sword belt and his shield are missing after the fall, torn loose in the tumble.

Dorian draws out the small knife and stares at the injury with glazed, horrified eyes. He takes a slow, steadying breath. "I have nothing to wash or sharpen the blade," he apologizes. Then he hesitates, realization striking. "And nothing to stitch the wound."

Speaking is becoming harder now, the words thick and heavy on his tongue. "Fire. Knife. Cauterize it."

Dorian hisses in a breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, his mouth is pinched into a hard line. His left hand reaches gingerly for the tip of the shaft where it protrudes from Kashek's torn skin. Just the faint pressure of his first probing touch sends waves of agony through the Inquisitor. Red fills his vision. He cries out, and Dorian hesitates.

"Don't stop," Kashek hisses. "Hurry. Quickly."

Kashek hears the tearing of cloth, parting under hasty pressure from the blade as the mage shreds open his padded gambeson and shirt to give him room to work. When Dorian's fingers probe down along the broken shaft and into torn muscle, the pain is intense, and red sparks in Kashek's vision as he cries out. The mage works swiftly, his face a stiff mask. But he whispers under his breath, prayers to the god Kashek doesn't believe in. The slice of the blade is quick, a parting of flesh that stings, a tug, and then the arrowhead is free, tossed aside. It clatters against the rock, the ring of metal on the cave floor echoing down stone tunnels.

 _When did I close my eyes?_ Kashek wonders as he opens them again. Dorian's fervent murmured prayers have stopped, replaced with a steady stream of quiet cursing. There is a jagged hitch in his voice as he swears, in both Tevene and the common trade tongue.

Fire flares brightly, magical flames conjured at a thought from the mage.

The orange glow flickers at the edge of his vision, but Kashek can't muster the strength to turn his head and look. A strange, placid sort of acceptance washes over him, a chill in his limbs leaving them heavy. His knee no longer hurts.

_Am I dying?_

"Forgive me," Dorian murmurs, voice thick and broken.

 _For what?_ But Kashek's tongue no longer seems to work, the words dying in his throat.

The answer comes a moment later, when his world is consumed with a pain so intense it makes him scream. He's burning alive, his skin aflame. Dorian's free hand holds him down, all his weight leaning on Kashek's shoulder as the Inquisitor tries to squirm away from the source of the pain. Then merciful darkness reaches out with greedy hands and drags him down.


	5. Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and the Inquisitor seek for a way out of their predicament, while their recent breakup haunts them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that, you say? Not enough tropes yet? Okay, have some angsty post-breakup blanket fic, too.

Dorian throws the knife aside viciously, like a scorpion with its tail raised to sting. The reddish glow of the metal fades, darkening and turning black.

 _I've just killed him,_ he thinks with dread, heart in his throat.

But the Inquisitor gasps in breath after breath, the pace rapid but regular. His pulse still beats, though it feels faint when Dorian presses his fingertips against Kashek's wrist.

Some coherent part of Dorian's brain has taken over, holding back the worst of the terrified panic that shrieks in the back of his mind. It batters against the wall, but cold logic pushes it down and smothers it for now while he considers what happens next.

He douses the flame he's been maintaining beside them, letting the energy dissipate. No use in wasting what little mana he has left, not when it may be precious later. Before the fall, he'd had one lyrium potion remaining, but his belt pouch now only holds broken glass and a few final drops of sticky residue. Still, he licks the last dregs of the potion from his fingertips, tasting the fiery burn of lyrium mingled with the blood and dirt that coat his hands. His stomach turns queasily. It's difficult to tell whether the few small drops have any real effect. He's so weary, he can't even gauge how much pain he's in, and his grasp on the energies of the Fade is growing tenuous as exhaustion creeps closer.

But he can't rest yet. Their situation remains too dire for that. Even if Kashek is no longer bleeding, there has been so much already spilled. The Inquisitor's blood cakes Dorian's fingers and palms, drying into a sticky crust. It soaks Kashek's shirt and coat, both of which now lie messily shredded by his knife, cut loose from the wound. And it puddles on the cold stone where he lies.

So much blood. It's impossible to tell how much. Dorian does not know how much blood a person can lose before it's too late. Has Kashek already passed that point of no return?

Dorian is no stranger to injury, to death. He's done his own share of killing, in service to the Inquisition. And he's witnessed the aftermath of the brutal damage caused by Bull's axe up close. He's taken his own wounds as well, including one arrow that had sliced his elbow to the bone. Blood should not leave him this uneasy.

But it's different, here. When it's Kashek's blood spilled, dripping away like sand in an hourglass, with only Dorian standing between the Inquisitor and the jaws of oblivion.

The wound had been a ragged chaos of shredded muscle and skin, torn open by the twisting arrow shaft during their fall. Even if they'd had a needle and thread, there would have been no stitching that mess. Dorian had needed to burn a patch of skin nearly the size of his hand to stop the bleeding, pressing the heated metal mercilessly against the flesh of the man he loves, not once, but again and again.

The smell had been awful, like burned meat over the cloying, metallic tang of spilled blood. Kashek's screams had not lasted long, when he lost his grip on consciousness, but the echoes still ring in Dorian's ears.

Even with the blood flow stemmed, Dorian has merely bought them a short delay against the inevitable. The wound will almost certainly fester from his hasty work, in this cold cave with both of them covered in dirt. If they don't find a healing potion or a real healer soon, Kashek will die from the infection as surely as if he'd bled out here.

At least the Inquisitor still breathes, for now. The pace seems wrong, too rapid. But the shallow breaths are mercifully free of the terrifying gurgle they would possess if Dorian had driven the arrowhead deeper in his fumbling ministrations and punctured a lung.

 _If only I had the skill for healing,_ Dorian thinks grimly. But no, his gifts are only those of death and destruction. He can cast the few simple healing spells any mage learns, sufficient only for the most minor of wounds. Certainly nothing powerful enough for an injury of this magnitude.

 _If we make it out of this alive, pride be damned. I'm asking Vivienne to teach me,_ Dorian resolves. Though he possesses no natural aptitude for channeling healing magic, he is certain he could learn _something_ , in time. If he'd asked Vivienne for help months ago, they might not be left in these circumstances.

Kashek yet breathes, but that could change at any moment. No way of knowing what other injuries he'd taken in the fall.

 _No._ He refuses to follow that train of thought, and distracts his mind by checking himself and Kashek for other obvious injuries.

For his part, Dorian seems to have taken only small wounds. His back throbs with a dull ache where his shoulder blade smacked painfully on a rock, but he can move it. A handful of scrapes and cuts bleed, but they are minor. The one on his cheek is worst, bleeding as only a facial wound can. It is not deep, and will stop in time. He sits on the ground beside Kashek, legs folded under him, and looks the Inquisitor over for any other major wounds as best he can.

If Kashek has any remaining injuries other than small ones, they are not bleeding, and Dorian can do little about those anyway.

The light spilling in from the crevice above has grown fainter now. Night is falling. He wonders if their companions found the assailant, if they won the fight. Wherever they are, his friends are far above, an impassable distance. He hopes they will have the presence of mind to press forward to Sahrnia.

If he at least had his pack, they'd have some small measure of supplies. But he'd dropped both it and his staff as they started to fall. Wherever they'd ended up, the items are not here.

As the light fails, the cave grows even chillier. Dorian shivers. A draft blows through this cavern, a sign that there may be a way out of these tunnels. If they can find it in time.

Beside him, the Inquisitor coughs in his sleep, a small sound but so suddenly terrifying.

Without warning, the fear clutches greedily at him, overwhelming all other thought. Icy fingers of dread trail down his spine, grip his heart, and squeeze it mercilessly.

Kashek's breathing returns to normal, and the terror recedes into a slow, heavy pressure of worry. Each hasty, labored breath is both a blessing and a dagger to Dorian's heart. He can see the small puff of vapor with each exhalation, in the chilly cavern. Soon, Dorian may need to start a fire, regardless of how much mana remains to him. After all this, he refuses to let Kashek freeze to death.

Death has been an ally and companion for so long, the spirits left in its wake both a fuel and focus of many spells. But tonight, he will fight death with every ounce of his strength.

So Dorian stands, chilled bones angrily protesting the motion with a painful twinge. Everything aches, after that fall, but he resolutely steels himself against the hurt and begins moving. He gathers every bit of twig or leaf he can find in the failing light. Maker knows they dragged enough debris down the slope with them. Dry pine needles have also fallen down through the crevice over time, scattering the bottom of the incline where they fell. Dorian collects them all and sweeps them into a pile as near the Inquisitor as he dares. It's a feeble amount of fuel for a fire. These thin bits of branch and leaf won't burn long. But perhaps it will be enough, if he lights it as the night grows chilliest.

Slowly, thirst starts to gnaw at him, but Dorian tries hard to ignore it. There is precious little water to be had, only the half-full canteen on his belt that miraculously survived the fall. Kashek's canteen was in his bag, at the top of the hill with the Iron Bull. When the Inquisitor wakes, Dorian will have to explore if for no other reason than to find something to slake their thirst. But he does not want to be gone when Kashek regains consciousness. _The fool would probably try to come find me if I'm not here when he awakens,_ he thinks grimly.

_If he awakens at all._

_No._ Dorian shakes his head, pushing away the worry with near-physical force. Just that stray thought is enough to turn his guts to water. He refuses to accept that possibility.

After he's finished making his tiny pile of campfire fuel, Dorian again sits beside the unconscious Qunari and stares down into Kashek's face. The Inquisitor's features are tight with pain even in sleep. Worry churns Dorian's stomach. Is it his imagination, or is Kashek paler than usual? The light is nearly gone, and it's impossible to know for sure..

Gently, hesitantly, he places a hand on the Inquisitor's forehead, praying not to feel it already burning with fever. Instead, the skin is clammy and cool to the touch. A slow, creeping trepidation blossoms in his chest. _It's too cold in here, and he lost so much blood._ Dorian slips the ugly Fereldan coat from his shoulders and drapes it over the sleeping Qunari. A feeble covering, with the Inquisitor's limbs poking out on all sides.

The cool air makes Dorian shiver.

He knows what he should do, what is only practical. But some part of him wonders if he makes the excuse too easily. Still, he settles beside the Inquisitor on his uninjured side, carefully sliding one arm over Kashek's stomach beneath the ill-fitting coat used as a blanket.

There's not much warmth to be had, in either of them, and the stone floor saps away what remains. Still, Kashek feels so cold, and Dorian hopes he can at least provide some comfort. He pillows his head uncomfortably on his other arm as his cheek rests against the Inquisitor's shoulder.

He won't sleep, this much he knows. Dorian waits for Kashek's every shallow breath, his heart beating in time and stilling in terror before each inhalation.

Dorian murmurs another prayer and a quiet plea. "Don't leave me." The near-prayer is so faint, almost inaudible even to Dorian's ears. The words are like a key unlocking the cage he's shoved his fear into. It floods his brain and body, leaving his limbs cold and shaking, his heart in his throat. Finally, the restless energy that has kept his mind running breaks down, leaving him weary, heartsore, and terrified. The true hopelessness of their situation settles on him like a boot pressed to his neck, and a bleak panic takes him.

Dorian does not know how much time they have before Kashek succumbs to the inevitable infection, even if his wounds are not grievous enough to kill him before then. When they fell, they were only a few hours' walk from Sahrnia, but there is no way of knowing how long these tunnels are, or whether there is even an exit. They have precious little water, and no food.

He doesn't even try to blink away the tears when they start to spill. In the dark, the empty silence, with Kashek so deeply unconscious, no one is here to see him fall apart.

 

* * *

 

Cold.

Kashek shivers awake, blinking crust from his eyes. Everything aches. His left side burns but the rest of his body is painfully frozen, his teeth chattering. His vision is bleary, and without thought, he tries to lift his arm to rub his eyes clear. The low pulsing heat under his arm surges to life, sending brutal waves of pain along his left side.

He cries out hoarsely at the pain, a memory of last night returning.

 _I was shot,_ he remembers.

Someone is saying his name. He turns his head toward a flickering warmth and scrubs the blurriness from his eyes with his good right hand.

Motion flickers in his fuzzy vision, and a shape is suddenly between him and the fire. Another hard blink and his eyesight clears.

"Dorian," he rasps, throat dry and mouth full of sand. The mage looks haggard, the face that is usually so full of life now hollow and hopeless. His cheek is smudged with a dried crust of blood, dirt caked in his hair and smeared into his clothes.

"You're awake," Dorian says, relief and worry fighting for dominance in his weary voice.

"Apparently," Kashek manages to mutter. He recalls everything now. The crossbow wound, the wild tumble down the cliff, the hasty surgery.

"Can you sit up? If I help?" Dorian asks. "There's water, if you can."

 _Water. Yes._ Suddenly, he burns with thirst despite the chill. He nods. "My good arm," he says, holding it up. Dorian grasps it and pulls Kashek into a sitting position as slowly and gently as possible. It still feels like his side is tearing open, where the arrow struck. The cauterized burn throbs with pain, a searing heat ebbing and flowing like ocean tides. It makes his breath come shallow and quick.

As he sits up, a heavy drape of cloth falls from his chest to his lap. Cream-colored wool, lined in fur. Dorian's coat. Kashek's chest aches at the sight of this meager blanket, freely given from the man who most despises the cold.

Trying not to think about the coat and how his heart still lurches painfully at the sight of it, Kashek balances with his good arm and tries to move his bad one. It moves, the fingertips flexing and the entire arm lifting a bit. The wave of pain and nausea that accompanies the motion is intense, but his relief is palpable. He can move it. It will heal. Eventually.

"Here." Dorian offers his own canteen.

Though the container sloshes invitingly, Kashek stares at Dorian's hands, stained with dried blood. It looks like the mage has tried to wipe them off, but dark splotches linger in the creases of his palm, his knuckles, underneath his fingernails and around their edges.

Dorian follows his alarmed gaze and grimaces. "It's mostly yours," he says wearily. "Drink the water."

Kashek takes it. The water is old and brackish, but to him it seems blessedly sweet, washing over his parched tongue like a blessing. There are only a few swallows of water, but he stops after the first sip and holds it out to Dorian. The mage pushes it back to him with a look of disgust. "No. Drink it. You need it more than I do."

Though it pains him to admit it, Kashek knows Dorian is right. His wounds have sapped too much of his strength. Thirst would only make it worse. Reluctantly, he drinks the rest and returns the canteen guiltily.

"I have to find a way out of here," Dorian says, reattaching the empty container to his belt. "I need to go, to search. The fire won't last long, and we must escape these tunnels soon."

Neither of them mention what they're both thinking. That there may not be a way out, other than the hole high above them, up a cliff face too steep to climb even if they both were healthy and whole.

"I'll go with you," Kashek offers, but Dorian shakes his head.

"No. You can't move as quickly right now. I need to find the way out as soon as possible. I'll return," Dorian tells him, eyes shadowed. "Soon." He stands.

The mage's words are too practical, too carefully detached and clinical. Dorian can't hide the ghosts in his eyes, though. He worries, hopeless and despairing.

Dorian turns, pulling his belt knife as he walks away and scratching a test mark on the cavern wall, an arrow showing which way he's come. The line shows white against the dark gray stone. Kashek's eyes lock on the blade, blackened from the fire. The same blade that may have saved his life, though a twist of agony pulses through him at the sight of it.

He wants to say something. Thank you, perhaps, but it seems feeble.

"Be careful," Kashek warns instead.

When Dorian turns to look at him, the twist of his smile is dark and bitter. "I think we're well past that, Inquisitor. Careful won't get either of us out of here alive."

Before Kashek can reply, the mage leaves the wan circle of firelight down the darkened tunnel. A flare of magical flame silhouettes him as he walks away, the echo of his blade scraping the stone walls trailing behind him.

 

* * *

 

Dorian is gone a very long time.

Kashek frets about the mage's absence, and tries a few more times to move his injured arm. As long as he only moves the elbow or wrist, the pain is bearable. It's only when he moves his shoulder or twists his torso that hot sparks of agony erupt.

He wishes he could remove his armor, but can't reach all the buckles with his one good arm. Sleeping in it has left him stiff and sore all over, on top of his other injuries. A throbbing pain washes over him with every heartbeat, surging outward from the wound on his side and his wrenched knee.

He's able to bend the knee a little with some pain, and it screams with red agony when he awkwardly manages to stand. It feels wrong, somehow, like it will collapse if he leans on it wrong. He can hobble a little, but slowly and with sharp stabs of pain with every step. With a bad arm and an injured knee, he'll need help to walk more than a few paces.

It's a hopeless, agonizing feeling, to be so weak and powerless.

Foolishly, he wraps himself in Dorian's coat as best he can. Masochistic, to tease himself by breathing in the mage's scent so willfully. And stupid, to yearn for Dorian's closeness, when there is mortal danger at hand. Or perhaps he longs all the fiercer because of the cruel reminder of their mortality.

Kashek well knows the peril of his injuries. His knee will likely heal on its own, in time. It twitches ceaselessly, a steady irritation in addition to the rest of his injuries, but the knee only throbs in pain when he moves it. The burn is another matter, a never-ending pain, a throbbing constant as certain as his own breathing. He can almost feel the torn muscle there, shredded and overwhelmingly _wrong._ The last time he tried moving, the burned flesh cracked open and started to leak some sort of warm fluid. In the dark, he can't tell if it's blood or something else seeping into the ragged edges of his shirt, but neither option is very heartening. It needs to be tended, and soon.

But Dorian was right to search. They have nothing with which to clean the wound, and binding it with dirty cloth would serve no purpose. They need to get out of here more than anything. If they can escape, they can make their way to Sahrnia and the healing potions stored at the Inquisition's nearby camp. That would set the worst of his injuries right.

Still, Dorian has been gone such a long, long time. The fire guttered out an hour or two ago, leaving Kashek alone in the dark with the smell of old blood and scorched pine needles in the tomblike cavern of chill, echoing stone.

Light has started to seep through the hole in the ceiling by the time Kashek hears Dorian's returning footsteps. The tread is quick, almost a jog. When he enters the cave and meets Kashek's eyes, the relief in Dorian's face is almost painful. Had he feared Kashek would die right here, while he was gone?

"I've found something," he says with a faint smile as he crosses to Kashek. He kneels, removes his canteen from his belt, and places it in Kashek's hand. It's heavy with cool water. Kashek drinks it gratefully. It has a sharp metallic tang, but he doesn't care. Even lifting his good arm causes a small line of fire to run up and down his left side.

Dorian continues while Kashek drinks his fill. "The tunnel does not branch, but it is leading upward, gradually. There's a cavern a distance from here, larger, with an underground stream." His grin widens as he adds. "I saw a ram drinking from it, one of those strange blue ones."

It takes Kashek's weary mind a moment to process the thought. To follow the trail of logic. August rams were not cave dwellers. If it had found a way in... "There's a way out." And one they could fit through, if a ram had managed. Also likely not too much farther past the cavern.

"Yes." Dorian smiles again, and Kashek notices that he's washed the blood from his face and hands. The cut on his cheek is starting to purple around the edges, visible even in the wan morning sunlight that spills into the cavern.

Almost absentmindedly, Kashek leaves the canteen resting in his lap and reaches up to brush the edge of the bruise lightly with the back of one fingertip.

Dorian flinches away from the touch like the slash of a blade.

Hurt twists inside Kashek, then guilt. _What am I thinking?_

Dorian turns aside, closing his eyes and hissing in a shuddering breath. Kashek can almost see the moment he decides to ignore the touch, to pretend it had never happened.

Dorian's voice, when he speaks, is cool and carefully precise.

"We can make it to the cavern by early afternoon, I think, if you can walk. It has better light, from holes in the roof of the cavern. With relatively clean water, we can wash and bind your wounds better there."

Kashek nods, still not trusting his tongue not to say something stupid. He holds the half-empty canteen out to Dorian. After the mage returns it to his belt, Kashek finds his voice.

"Help me up, and we can go. I think I can walk, but my right knee is hurt. I can't stand up on my own." A painful admission to make.

The process is awkward, but he manages to stand. It takes a bit of work and an agonizing amount of pain that leaves Kashek gasping. He can put some weight on it while the knee is locked straight, though a shooting pain screams through him. However, as soon as he bends the knee, it threatens to collapse and tumble him to the ground again. Something has torn there, something crucial.

In the end, they make do with a stiff, hopping gait, Kashek using his good right arm to support part of his weight on Dorian's shoulder. It's tedious going, but they make progress.

In silence, Kashek ignores the slow, damp trickle down his left side and keeps walking.


	6. Quarrel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While searching for a path out of the cave, a conversation between Dorian and the Inquisitor turns ugly.

The walk out of the cave seems to take forever, both of them making their way in silence except for small warnings of dips in the stone, or requests to pause a moment to catch their breath. Kashek wonders if the constant contact is as brutally difficult for Dorian. If it is, the mage is good at hiding it, his face a blank mask and his voice gently encouraging. A small flicker of magical flame lights their way, though it gutters low a few times.

Eventually, they enter the cavern. One thing Dorian had failed to mention was its beauty. The space is immense, as large as Skyhold's throne room, with a ceiling that arches high above in a latticework of holes that spill afternoon sunlight into the space. Sharp stalactites dangle between the gaps, tipped in dripping icicles. Matching stalagmites stretch upward toward them like ardent lovers, some merging in the center, but most of them forever reaching.

Glittering crystals line the walls of the cave like stars in the night sky, shimmering in the scattered sunbeams. A closer look reveals that some of them are not crystals at all, but rich veins of sparkling pink dawnstone and gleaming silverite.

A stream cuts a sharp path along the cavern's length, parallel to the tunnel they emerge from. It slices through the stone like a gash, its edges sharp and the water deep.

They come to a rest beside the water, Kashek sinking gratefully to the ground and stretching his injured knee gingerly out before him, resting his back against a large stalagmite. The injury under his arm is a blazing fire by now.

"We need to clean and bandage that wound," Dorian says matter-of-factly. He rests the back of one hand against Kashek's forehead for a moment, then swears softly under his breath. "You're chill as the stone. The water is cold, but I have to use it. The longer the burn stands open like that, the more likely it is to fester and turn to fever."

"A fever would be a nice change of pace," Kashek replies in a feeble attempt at Dorian's brand of sarcasm. Instead, he just sounds wan and tired. "I'm so cold." His shivering has been ceaseless for the last hour. Except the fist-sized burn on his side. That patch of skin seems to radiate heat in painful waves, the torn muscles beneath adding a counterpoint of their own sharp pain.

"That's no better," Dorian mutters darkly to himself. He sits beside the water of the stream, using his knife to awkwardly hack off a chunk of fabric from the bottom of his robe. It's not easy going. The blade is dull from its ill use over the past day, and there's nothing with which to sharpen it. The fine weave of Dorian's expensive robe tears more than slices free. Not that it's all that fancy anymore, snagged from their fall and smeared with dirt.

Kashek watches in silence, his shivering taking on a violent quality that makes his teeth chatter. He wraps Dorian's coat tighter over his shoulders, although the smaller garment is more a cape than a coat.

Dorian removes a washcloth-sized piece first, then slowly manages to slice off the entire lower portion of his robes, giving him an armful of pale, silken fabric. Wordlessly, he dips it in the freezing water, scrubbing the fabric against itself until he's removed as much of the dirt as he ever will. After wringing out as much of the water as he can. Dorian slices it into ragged strips, then drapes all the pieces of fabric wetly over one knee and moves to sit beside Kashek.

"I need to clean the burn," Dorian states matter-of-factly, but there's a tightness to the mage's voice that Kashek notices even in his shivery, dreamy state.

"Okay."

Dorian sighs. He speaks the next words hesitantly, the words clipped. "I'm going to have to remove your armor and some of your clothes, to bandage it properly."

Kashek nods weakly.

Carefully, Dorian unbuckles the armor, a worried furrow between his brows. He sets aside the metal pieces one by one. Pauldrons, chestplate, gorget. He unbuttons the sides of the gambeson underneath next. His hands are deft and his work swift, but Kashek can focus on little but his own physical misery. When the gambeson is removed, Dorian swears again, staring at the dark stain that spreads along Kashek's undershirt on his left side.

Kashek glances down at his shirt, thoughts vague. "Oh. I guess it was blood, then. Good."

"Good?" Dorian's voice is high and angry, his fear ill-concealed beneath his fury.

"Better than pus," Kashek shrugs, too tired to feel terribly worried. The motion wakes a new host of pains, and he groans softly.

Dorian swears again, but starts working ever more quickly. Kashek lets the mage work. But to remove the shirt, Kashek must lift his arms. Raising his injured arm is pure agony, but he accomplishes it.

When Dorian tries to tug the shirt off, it sticks to Kashek's skin along his left side. The blood that leaked from his wound has dried, crusting the fabric against him. It peels off with a disgusting tearing sound, and Dorian grimaces as he sets the garment aside.

He takes the damp, smaller cloth and presses it over the burn for a few moments. The cool touch of the icy water against the heat of the wound makes Kashek sigh with bliss. The scorching agony calms, and his thoughts clear a little, like cobwebs tugged free from the corners of his mind.

Gently, so terribly gently, Dorian washes the injury, repeatedly rinsing the fabric in the water and lightly dabbing away the dirt and crusted blood from the wound. After he is finished, he knots together the long strips of fabric from his robe and wraps them tightly about Kashek's chest, binding and sealing the wound. There's barely enough of the shining silk to circle his chest enough times to cover the burn the size of Kashek's palm. But it will do. The fabric is still damp, and it chills his skin where it touches.

Next, Dorian begins to wash the dried trickle of blood down his side, wiping it away with soft strokes and a heartbreakingly sad expression.

Kashek's shivers have returned, the cool air in the cave and the dampness of his skin spurring another wave of shuddering chills. He huddles in on himself, wrapping his good arm around his stomach for what warmth he can find.

Dorian notices, and finishes scrubbing away the blood quickly. He helps Kashek back into his shirt, though the still-damp bandages soak through the cotton at the chest. He also returns the gambeson, its padded warmth a balm to Kashek's cold, cold skin.

When the mage casts a dubious glance at the armor, Kashek speaks for the first time in what seems like an eternity. "Leave it." With a weary sigh, he leans backward against the stalagmite and lets his head loll back, closing his eyes. The sharp tips of his horns scrape the stone. "I'm so tired, Dorian."

"I know." A pleasant heaviness settles over him. Dorian's coat again, draped for a little more warmth.

Too weary to open his eyes, Kashek pulls it over himself as best he can. "And cold. So unbearably cold."

Dorian's bark of laughter contains no humor. "That I also know well."

When the mage's solid presence settles against his good side, Kashek sighs and wraps an arm around him, snuggling him closer.

"This is only for the warmth, you know," Dorian mutters sharply as he drapes an arm over Kashek's chest.

"Okay," Kashek mumbles his weary agreement, already drifting off into an exhausted sleep.

 

* * *

 

Dorian startles awake, swearing as he jerks upright.

He hadn't intended to sleep. But he'd been lulled by the small comfort of sitting beside the Inquisitor, of the simple luxury of shared warmth. Kashek's breathing had been steadier than it was the night before, a heartening sign that soothed away the worst ragged edges of worry.

Exhaustion had overtaken him, pulling him down into deep, dreamless slumber. Dorian hadn't slept at all for a day and a half, after spending a long night painfully alert, watching over Kashek's every breath, then exploring the cave into the early morning hours.

If he's being honest, he hasn't rested well since Val Firmin in any case, his nights troubled, his dreams restless and doubtful.

Had he made the right choice at Val Firmin, truly? Cold, heartless logic tells him yes. But watching the suffering he caused leaves Dorian feeling heartlessly cruel, both Kashek and Cole fading into shadows of their usual selves. Because of Dorian's mercilessness.

He's no better than those who've broken his own heart, in the past. Teasing, using, and discarding, heedless of the misery it causes. Isn't that what he's done, really?

Beside him, Kashek stirs. Night has fallen while they slept, and the moonlight steals all color from the scene, casting the Inquisitor's features in sharp contrast. Impossible to tell if he still looks pale, in this light.

Delicately, Dorian presses the back of his hand against the Qunari's forehead, checking for fever or that dreadful chill. Perhaps its his imagination, but Kashek's skin feels warmer now. Is it a return to he Inquisitor's normal steady heat, or the first flush of a fever?

As he withdraws his hand, Kashek's eyes open slowly, dreamy and still half-asleep. A small, wistful smile touches his mouth as he reaches up with his good arm to cup Dorian's cheek. The Inquisitor's voice is distant when he says, "You're here. I dreamed you left."

For a short moment of weakness, Dorian closes his eyes and leans into the touch. But he takes a breath and turns his face away. _I did, in all ways that matter,_ Dorian thinks bitterly. Aloud, he clears his throat and slips from the embrace.

He can see the moment the Inquisitor comes fully awake, the instant when Kashek remembers that he shouldn't be touching Dorian so casually. His eyes darken with pain, and he pulls his hand back as if stung. He glances away.

Dorian distracts himself by standing and stretching. If possible, everything aches worse than the day before. The silence grows awkward until Kashek breaks it.

"This isn't going to get easier, is it?"

Dorian sighs, staring down at the stream that flows beside them. "I don't know. Perhaps, but I doubt it." He scratches the cut on his cheek, starting to itch now. "Someday, eventually, I suppose it must."

The Inquisitor's laugh is brittle, a broken and bitter sound Dorian has never heard from him. "And how long will that take, I wonder?"

With another sigh, Dorian kneels and removes the canteen from his belt, pouring out yesterday's now-brackish water and refilling it. "As long as it has to take." He drinks deeply, then refills the canteen and twists to hand it to Kashek. He's almost proud of how steady his voice is. "When we return to Skyhold, I'll keep my distance. I'll return to my students and my research, study your amulet, and leave you be." _He'll forget these feelings soon enough, when I'm out of sight. They always do._

The Inquisitor takes the canteen, takes several long gulps, and hands it back. He sighs and scrubs his face wearily with his good hand. "I don't understand how you can do this. How you can set this distance between us so calmly." Kashek closes his eyes and takes a long, shuddering breath. When he opens them, his gaze is clear, but lit with a slow-burning frustration. "I thought maybe we were past this, past the running away and coming back again. And again. I thought maybe..." he shakes his head. "I don't know. That maybe you were ready, ready to really accept this." His usual gentle expression turns to something ugly, a painful twist to his mouth. "To accept _me_. But without even giving me the chance to talk about it, you took the easy path, and fled."

Anger burns, though Dorian couldn't say if it's directed more at himself, the Inquisitor's words, or the cruelty of the situation.

"You think this is _easy?_ " Dorian snarls. "To turn aside from   this, to walk away from--" he bites off the words as a solid lump forms in his throat. _From the chance at a future I never thought could be mine_. He shakes his head, a grim smile on his face. _Well, I was right, wasn't I? It never will be, now._ His next words are carefully measured, sharply accusatory. "I make the choice you refuse to make."

"There are always more than two choices." Kashek's voice is tired, the plea a hopeless one. "There has to be another way."

"There isn't. The sooner you see that, the better."

 _"'You have to fight for what's in your heart'._ " Kashek spits the phrase back at him mercilessly. "Your words. Why give up now? Why are you so scared?" He reaches out, but Dorian smacks his hand away, anger rising.

"Because I won't be your ruin!" His voice has taken on a mad, frantic note. " _Scared._ Yes, I'm absolutely terrified. For you. You just can't seem to comprehend how deadly the Great Game is."

"I don't need you to protect me, Dorian."

He barks a harsh laugh. "Says the man who can't even stand on his own." This was a side of himself Dorian never wanted the Inquisitor to see, the acid-laced edge of his tongue at his most bitterly vicious.

"You've no need to be cruel."

"Don't I?" The words are icy. "Nothing else seems to get through your head. Perhaps it's better if you learn to despise me. Hating me would make it easier. On both of us."

"That's not what you really want."

"No, but it's what we have left to us." Dorian's shoulders slump wearily as he picks up his discarded coat from the stone floor beside Kashek. "Let's get out of here."


	7. Mountainside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and the Inquisitor have found a way out of the cave, but still must rejoin the party. More awkwardness and angsty pining ensues.

The rest of the journey up the tunnel is made even more difficult by the new fracture between them. Kashek understands the cool, harsh logic behind Dorian pushing him away, but this rift may not be one they can heal. Certainly not if Dorian doesn't want it repaired.

The mage is withdrawn, icy as the coldest winter. He continues to help Kashek walk by leaning on Dorian's shoulder for balance, but Dorian offers no more than that. His words are clipped when he must speak, and the pace he sets is demanding if not punishing.

The tunnel continues slowly upward in a single twisting path, following the stream that cuts through the center of the tunnel. It trickles along at the bottom of the cave, forcing them to splash through it when the stone walls press narrow and close in places. There are no forks in the path, no possible turns that might lead to a difficult decision and a wrong turn. Kashek is grateful for that small stroke of luck at least. They've been painfully short on luck lately.

He doesn't tell Dorian when the burn starts throbbing more painfully, the warmth spreading out from the wound until it feels like his entire left side faces a roaring bonfire. A fine mist of sweat clings to his skin even in the chill of the cave, starting to soak into his undershirt. The bit of warmth from the fire Dorian creates for light is uncomfortable, beating against his flushed skin.

Without light, in the darkness of the cave, it's impossible to tell how long they walk. Dorian presses them relentlessly, only letting the Inquisitor rest for small breaks when he starts breathing heavily or when even his good leg starts to ache so badly it trembles. The pace is only practical, but Dorian's chill demeanor makes the distance seem interminable.

At first, the light seems a trick of his imagination, the rock walls seeming more detailed, every crevice and shadow noticeable. But before long, it's certain. Light is trickling into the cave from somewhere.

Dorian douses his flame, relief seeping through his stoic mask when he says, "Daylight."

Kashek nods beside him, still hobbling along. "Could be another cavern, holes in the ceiling."

Dorian responds with distant silence.

But the mage was right. Soon, they emerge from the cavern into morning sunlight. Kashek squints against the painful brightness until his eyes adjust. They've come out of the cavern on a gently sloping hill, the Frostback mountains looming overhead, closer than they were before the fall.

Kashek glances up at the sun high overhead and tries to count the passage of time. Remembering and sorting his thoughts is more effort than it should be. It had been early evening when he'd been shot by the arrow. Another night and day had passed until they reached the underground stream, then another night half sleeping and half walking out.

Had the rest of the party made it to Sahrnia? Were they searching for him even now?

Dorian grimaces as he glances around the hillside. Trees are sparse here, the ground blanketed in a layer of snow. This high into the foothills, spring has yet to loosen winter's grasp completely. The wind still has teeth, a chill note in the light breeze. The stream they followed up the cavern is little more than a trickle here, meandering down the hillside and into the cave they've just left. A few miles before them, the Frostbacks extend far to the left and right, an impassable wall.

"We were a few hour's walk north of Sahrnia when we fell, but there's no telling where we are now," Dorian admits. "For all the meandering of those caves, we could have passed directly underneath the village."

Kashek nods, following the thought with some effort. His head feels stuffed with cotton, and calculating their location is an impossible task. He leans against a nearby stone.

For a moment, unconcealed worry flickers across Dorian's face. The mage closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them his gaze is studiously blank once again. "You need to rest," he declares, taking a stride toward Kashek. He dusts off a patch of stone, clearing of half-melted snow, then helps Kashek sit, back resting against the boulder.

"Kashek!" The voice snaps at him from only inches away, and Kashek's eyes flutter open. He didn't remember closing them.

"I have to get our bearings," Dorian says, voice tight with something Kashek can't identify, eyes dark with anger or worry. "I need to climb to the top of this hill to look around. I'll be back soon."

"Okay," Kashek nods weakly. The cool stone at his back feels so pleasant against his hot skin. He's on fire, burning slowly from the inside out.

His eyes close again and he's already half-asleep when Dorian's bootsteps crunch away on the snow. The mage is muttering something under his breath, but the words make no sense. Tevene? Or perhaps Kashek's brain no longer has the strength to interpret anything at all.

Either way, he's too weary to care, and sinks into restless, fevered dreams.

 

* * *

 

Dorian scrambles up the hill as quickly as he can manage, murmuring alternating prayers and curses at fate. His shoulder hurts again, the torn muscle screaming a protest against its ill use, but he has worse things to worry about. For a time, sheer weariness kept the panic suppressed deep inside, but now it's returned in force, battering at the walls he's built to keep it at bay. The Inquisitor's skin had been frighteningly flushed when Dorian left him on the hillside, his eyes fever-bright. The wound is festering, and there is nothing Dorian can do about it except try to get them to help as soon as possible.

Soon, he will have to decide whether to leave Kashek behind, to go for aid and bring it back. But he quails at that thought. He's no tracker, and there's no guarantee he'd ever find the Inquisitor again if he forged ahead on his own.

He reaches the apex of the hill and scans the surrounding area for any sign of a familiar landmark, but it's just more hills, rocks, and trees. Knowing which direction is north does little good unless he can determine which way Sahrnia lies from their current location.

 _Wait, **there**_. Not Sahrnia, nor a landmark, but a smudge of gray rises, just beyond a clump of trees not far south, at the base of their hill. Smoke, which means fire, which means people. Is it the chimney of a lone cottage, or a cook fire at a camp? Friend or foe?

It little matters which. Whoever it is, the owner of that fire is likely to have supplies, food at the very least. Dorian's stomach clenches into a hard knot at the thought. It's been nearly two days since his last meal, and the Inquisitor desperately needs to eat something if his body has any chance of fighting the fever. Begging or stealing supplies would certainly be preferable to an attempt at foraging. Dorian is unfamiliar with this southern flora, and could just as easily select a poisonous plant as an edible one. He could try hunting, with fire and lightning as his tools, but this is the more certain path.

Dorian clambers back down the hill to find Kashek in a heavy sleep still sitting up, head lolled back against the stone. His brow is furrowed in pain, skin flushed in the morning sun. Worry tightens within Dorian again, but he clenches his jaw and pushes it back. Kneeling, he presses the back of a hand to Kashek's forehead. It's even warmer than usual, and coated with a fine sheen of sweat.

Swallowing back his fear, Dorian smooths his face into practiced blankness and shakes the Inquisitor's shoulder lightly, calling his name.

No response. He can't see the rise and fall of the Inquisitor's breathing, and fear pierces him deep. Dorian leans closer, listening for a breath. It's there, but shallow and slow. Relief and dread knot into a tangle in his chest, and he nudges the Inquisitor's good shoulder more firmly, nearly shouting Kashek's name to rouse him.

The Inquisitor's eyes crack open, already crusted with sleep, bleary and distant. He draws a deep breath, blinking as his eyes meet Dorian's for a long moment, coming back into focus. He groans, turning his head away. Dorian leans back and away. "I feel awful," he croaks.

Dorian offers him the canteen as he speaks. "I saw a fire from the hilltop," he explains. "It's not far, just down the hill. I'm going to find out who it is and see what supplies I can find."

"What if it's an enemy camp?" Kashek's fevered eyes darken with worry as Dorian stands. "You can't fight them by yourself." Every word seems an effort.

"I fear there's not much choice in that," Dorian replies crisply. "We need whatever supplies they may have. If we're lucky, I can find a potion or medical supplies." He tosses a grim smile at the Inquisitor. "I fought alone when I first came to Ferelden, Inquisitor. Do you think I met no bandits as a lone traveler? I can handle them. If there are too many to fight, I will quietly steal what I can. I'm no thief, but I'll manage." He cocks his head slightly, a slow smile spreading over his features. "I think a distraction would do rather nicely. I'm good at that. Something about 'setting fire to everything and asking questions later', if I recall correctly?" He raises an eyebrow.

Kashek laughs weakly. "I see you're not trying to make me hate you anymore."

Dorian's dry wit vanishes. He'd forgotten about that.

"I'll return soon," he says quietly. "Keep the canteen."

The Inquisitor doesn't meet his eyes, and his voice is low when he responds. "Be careful."

Neither of them ask what will happen if Dorian doesn't return. They both already know the answer.


	8. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation deteriorates. Kashek grows even more ill, and Dorian is left to tend him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a little more hurt/comfort.

The scenery has changed, but it's otherwise an eerie repeat of that long night spent waiting in the cavern. Kashek sits helpless, waiting for Dorian to return.

This time, Kashek is too exhausted to fret. A new host of aches has settled on top of the existing pain, the bone-deep wrongness of fever, accompanied by the burning heat and small tremors. His mind drifts in a restless state of half-wakefulness, sharp thoughts drifting in and out of his consciousness like mirror-bright butterflies, painful to look at and difficult to grasp.

He awakens to shouting, once again. Dorian kneeling before him like before, calling his name, trying so hard to hide the dread and worry in his eyes.

Kashek drifts to wakefulness reluctantly, shrinking aside from the host of pains that wrack him. He'd always thought himself fairly resilient when it came to injury. The life of a mercenary is not easy on the body, and he's borne his share of wounds. But never one like this, combined with the fever's foulness coursing through his veins. It's all he can do to muster enough concentration to focus on Dorian's words.

The mage is holding up something wrapped in a scrap of oiled paper, large enough to fill both his cupped hands. When he unwraps it, the aroma of roasted meat makes Kashek's stomach turn uneasily.

"Eat," Dorian commands, placing the paper and its contents on his lap, leaving his own coat over Kashek's legs as a strange sort of tablecloth. The mage begins to brush clear a flat area of stone a few paces away. His motions are too crisp, too stiff, and his voice is too deliberately pragmatic. "They had some basic medical supplies. Nothing as effective as a potion, and I want to try cleaning your wound again." He holds up a bag and peers into it. "I think there's some sort of poultice in here somewhere." Setting the bag aside, he starts collecting twigs and branches for a fire.

"Who..." Kashek's voice is hoarse, his throat dry. He coughs, reaching for the nearby canteen with his good hand and taking a long drink. The cool water steadies him a little, his thoughts clearing.

"Not bandits, nor Red Templars," Dorian explains as he sets the wood aflame, holding the magical fire until the twigs and leaves fully catch. He tosses a few larger branches on and settles an old, battered metal pot in the fire. "Hunters," he says as he begins to scoop handfuls of snow into the pot. His voice is a touch higher than usual, the anxious note probably unnoticeable to anyone who didn't know him so well. "I was able to trade with them instead of fighting. A pot and cup, a small whetstone, a bag of medical supplies, a little dried jerky for later, and a quick hot meal for me with one wrapped up to bring back." He glances up at Kashek for a quick moment. "They refused to send one of their number for help, not that I believe they'd truly return if they did. But I do have directions to Sahrnia. We've wandered a day's walk from the camp. A day's walk for a healthy man at a good pace," he points out.

Kashek barely hears the words, dreamily watching Dorian's hands scoop handful after handful of snow into the pot, the mage's fingers trembling ever so slightly. A thought nags at him, though, Something wrong. Something Dorian isn't saying.

_Trade with them._

"Traded what?" Kashek asks, the realization slipping past his cracked lips.

Dorian looks up at him sharply, mouth bent into a grimace. "Eat. You need the food."

Kashek doesn't break Dorian's gaze, feeling his eyes narrow. He tears off a small piece of the meat and lifts it to his lips. It's just simple roasted rabbit, but his body rejects it fiercely. The taste nearly makes him gag, but he chews slowly and forces it down with a swallow of the water. Dorian is right, despite his stomach's protests.

Still, he refuses to be distracted, clinging to his suspicious thought with all his strength, a slippery fish caught wriggling in his grasp.

"Traded what, Dorian?" His heart sinks. The amulet. The one Dorian had traded away once already, that he'd been so prickly about.

The mage huffs out a sigh, having filled the pot halfway with melted snow. He stares down into the flames as if his angry gaze can make the water boil faster. "Nothing important. A trinket I bought in Val Royeaux. It was the only thing in my belt pouch worth trading anymore, and trust me, the hunters were more than well compensated with it." He drags the bag of medical supplies over to him and begins rummaging through it. "It was useless now anyway," he murmurs, so quietly that Kashek wonders if he knows he was overheard.

Kashek doesn't have the energy to press further, resolutely concentrating on eating his meager meal. After the first few bites, his queasiness turns into a sudden, ravenous hunger. Still, he eats slowly, afraid to make himself more ill by gorging.

While he eats, Dorian prepares some sort of tea from a bag of dried, crushed leaves after giving it a cautious sniff and touching a bit of leaf to his tongue. "Remember Crestwood, when you made me drink an entire pot of that awful elfroot tea?" The mage smiles grimly. "I assure you, the taste is every bit as appalling as you'd imagine." He throws a handful of the leaves into the boiling water. "Fresh elfroot would be better, but I found none. The hunters informed me it can't be found here this time of year. So tea it is. After you've eaten and had a few cups of this, I'll want to redress and bandage your wound with some of these supplies."

Kashek nods, weariness settling over him like a heavy blanket. He chews resolutely, each swallow an effort, until he finishes the last of the meat in the greasy pouch. The small meal strengthens him, his thoughts coming more clearly once again. It's wearying, the vague fogginess that settles and lifts from his mind in cycles.

Dorian sorts through the supplies while the tea steeps, then scoops a cupful out of the pot. He pauses for a moment, and a thin sheen of frost forms on the outside of the cup, cooling the steaming liquid from boiling to a drinkable temperature. The ice melts away within seconds, and Dorian takes the few short steps to hand it to Kashek. He removes the oiled paper and throws it into the fire for kindling.

The tin mug is still warm even through Kashek's leather gloves. He holds it in his good hand, the human-sized cup fitting easily in his grasp.

The smell tickles his nose, acrid and bitter. Bits of leaves float in the greenish water, the color of an algae-filled pond. It's not an appetizing prospect, but the food in his belly seems to have settled his queasiness a little. After a cautious sip, he grimaces.

"I warned you," Dorian raises one eyebrow. "It goes down easier if you drink it quickly, if it's cooled enough to do so." He sits beside the supplies he's laid out from the bag. A small wide-mouthed jar, the remainder of the bag of dried leaves, Two squares of clean cotton fabric along with a thin roll of the same, and a small vial of a colorless liquid. He draws a small whetstone from the bag and begins scraping his belt knife along it, smoothing out the damage done over the past two days and sharpening the edge. "Sadly I've no honey for you."

The reminder curdles something in Kashek's chest, a bittersweet ache at the memory of that night in Crestwood. He still recalls all too well the look of confusion and disbelief on Dorian's face when Kashek had offered his own stash of honey to sweeten the foul elfroot tea. The mage's sheer puzzlement at such a small gesture of thoughtfulness had been heartbreaking. It had taken so very long to convince Dorian he was worthy of such a kindness.

 _And now he believes, and still chooses to walk away._ Bitterly, Kashek gulps down the unpleasant tea, faster than he should. The heat of it warms his throat on the way down, a burning coal settling in his stomach. He takes another long drink, strangely shivering at the core of fire within him. It almost seems to make his limbs feel even colder, the soft breeze holding a fierce chill that rattles his bones.

His weariness, the shivery fever, and the multitude of aches have worn away the resolve and patience Kashek normally possesses. The despair that washes over him is a prickly complement to his physical misery, a soul-deep sort of anguish. Dorian has shied away from him before, but only out of wariness. This is a steadfast resolve, and the stubborn mage will not budge this time. Of that, Kashek is certain, down to his bones. He tosses back the last of the mug with a grimace at the bitter wad of leaves at the bottom.

The sharp flavor seems fitting for his mood, his despair.

_I've lost him for good this time. That is, if I make it through this._

Deep down, Kashek knows he may not live to see Sahrnia. He's watched comrades fall to blood poisoning, a foul wound claiming them all too quickly. That heavy uncertainty binds him tightly with each breath. Death is a constant worry for a warrior, each battle a roll of the dice that may end in his demise. But he can almost feel the burning tendrils of poison that snake through his body, spreading outward from the arrow wound like creeping, strangling vines. A slow, inexorable death is dragging him ever closer.

It's terrifying, if he thinks about It too closely. So he distracts himself with these other thoughts that chase themselves in circles. Instead, he contemplates the man sitting before him, trying so desperately not to show his own terror. The tightness around Dorian's eyes and the hard set of his jaw betray his worry, no matter how stoic a face he tries to put on it. _He knows._  Dorian knows that Kashek will die soon without proper medical assistance. The blood loss and other trauma is only worsening the effect of the blood poisoning. Already he feels weaker, muscles trembling with the effort of movement while the fever ravages him. How much longer can he last?

It's an enemy he cannot fight, and it leaves him with a frustrated anger and bleak hopelessness, in turn and sometimes both at once. At least, when he's coherent enough to think about such things.

Dorian looks up, notices the empty mug, and comes to take it from Kashek's grasp. He hadn't realized he'd gripped it so tightly, his silent fury manifesting in the clutch of his fingertips. With an effort, he loosens his grip and resists the urge to hurl the mug away in his anger. A useless tantrum, something that they can both ill afford right now.

He wants to stand, to move, to run, a restless energy making his fingers and legs twitchy. Perhaps that's an effect of the tea, or just his feelings of impotent worthlessness.

Dorian doesn't speak, but his fingers brush the back of Kashek's hand as he takes the mug. They're cool, uncharacteristically chill.

When the mage places the back of his hand against Kashek's forehead, he realizes it's not Dorian that's cold, but his own skin burning hot.

 _I'm still feverish,_ Kashek realizes, the steady, achy tremble still lying deep within his bones.

Dorian's silence speaks volumes, his mouth pulling down in a worried grimace as he turns and refills the mug, cooling it and handing it back. "One more cup after this one, and then I'm washing and re-bandaging the wound whether your fever has gone down or not."

Kashek rasps out a small, bitter laugh as he gulps down the hot tea. The second mug is even more bitter than the first. "It's too late for that," he mutters. "It already festers. We need to move, to find a healer or our camp." The next sip is easier, though it still makes him cough. "I'm dying. Slowly, but certainly." The pessimism that fills him at stating it out loud is almost a painful sort of comfort, the strange satisfaction of prodding a bruise. In several long gulps, he finishes the second small mug and hands it back.

Dorian's eyes flash with anger. "No. I'm not letting you die, whether you want to or not. So you'd best get used to the idea of living."   As he scoops out the third mug of tea and cools it, Dorian stares at him grimly, those cloudy eyes piercing. "If you die on me now, I swear I will drag your spirit back through the Veil and bind you to the smelliest Orlesian privy I can find."

Kashek blinks, a small laugh escaping him despite himself. "Can you actually do that?"

Dorian's smile is vicious. "Don't die on me and you won't have to find out." He laughs too, a harsh, mad sort of sound that bubbles up from him unbidden.

The desperate madness washes over them both. Soon, they are both gasping from a frantic sort of laughter, sharp-edged and bitter but inexorable.

Each raspy, insane chuckle sends a painful twinge down his side, but Kashek can't stop. It's a peculiar sort of lunacy that has gripped them, the insanity of certain doom and a vicious sort of gallows humor.

As the laughter settles, Dorian kneels beside him, wiping at his watering eyes while the tired worry settles back over his face.

Their eyes meet, and Kashek suddenly can't bear it.

"Please don't go," he asks, the dark humor vanishing as suddenly and inexplicably as it arrived.

"I'm not going anywhere," Dorian responds cautiously, his voice once again carefully empty. A curtain falls over those eyes, winter clouds covering a clear gray sky. "I'll see you to safety."

"You know that's not what I mean."

Dorian turns his gaze away with a small sigh. "Please, not again." The words could be harsh, but they're soft, pained, and exhausted. "You need your strength, and I fear this discussion will lead nowhere you want to go."

"I can feel the poison in me, Dorian. I might not last until we find help." Kashek's voice now is matter-of-fact, his former bleak despair sinking into a calm sort of acceptance. "And I don't want things between us left like this, if I don't make it."

"Don't say that!" Dorian snaps, the outburst sudden and his voice raised shrilly. A handful of birds nearby take wing at the unexpected shout. The startled, angry expression on Dorian's face betrays his own surprise at his reaction. He grips the mug too tightly, his knuckles white. He quiets his next words. "We can make it to Sahrnia. Please don't give up yet."

Kashek's weariness surfaces as a sudden burst of his own anger. "Like you gave up?" He asks, voice sharper than it's ever been with Dorian. "Why should I fight when you won't?" The words are bitter, childish and petulant. He feels like the frayed end of a rope, worn down and jagged-edged.

"I am fighting," Dorian says quietly as he holds out the mug. "Just not for the same goal. I fight to keep you and the Inquisition alive long enough to defeat Corypheus. Whatever that takes." When he shoves the mug at Kashek, the motion sloshes a bit of the tea over the side.

As he reaches to take the cup, Kashek his fingertips linger over Dorian's a moment longer than they should. Their eyes lock onto one another. The turbulent gray eyes that always flash with wit or pool hidden sorrow are clouded and weary now.

"I know," Kashek says. "But we both know how this could end. And I don't want us to be... _this_ , if it all goes badly." He grasps the handle of the mug and pulls it away from Dorian's grasp, still feeling the warmth of Dorian's hand against his own. "Can you just wait to fight that battle until later, put it aside while it's still just the two of us? Until we reach camp?" _Or until the worst happens._ He doesn't say those words. Kashek can barely taste the elfroot now as another gulp of the stuff is swallowed down, his tongue numb from the first two cups. A pleasant fuzziness has started to seep into his limbs, a heavy tingling sensation.

Dorian glances away, gathering the medical supplies as he kneels next to Kashek's bad side. He's silent as he fusses with the jar of unguent for a few moments. When he speaks, it is a rare moment of raw honesty. Perhaps his nerves are worn just as thin, and he no longer has the energy for sarcasm or clever deflection. "It will only hurt worse, once we get back to camp. No use in teasing ourselves."

"No use except a little more time of something bright and good in this mess," Kashek murmurs after draining the last of the tea. His tongue feels suddenly too large to fit around his teeth, his words thick. His thoughts are drifting again, the melancholy gripping him tightly. "Please. Just a little longer..." his voice wavers, hesitating. But he can't stop the last words from spilling out. "To say goodbye."

Dorian's hand stills as he places the pot of steaming tea in a small drift of snow beside him. His eyes close, and he remains motionless for a few moments as the snow hisses softly beneath the hot metal. After two long, shaky breaths, he opens his eyes and scoops a little more snow into what's left of the pungent mixture to melt. "I already said goodbye," he points out softly as he drops one of the cotton squares into the liquid to soak. "In Val Firmin. I don't relish the thought of doing it twice, and I don't think you do either."

Kashek is having trouble keeping his eyes open again. _Not so soon, I just woke up._ "You can say goodbye as many times as you want," he mumbles dreamily, "if it means you stay with me for a little longer."

He startles when Dorian tugs at his clothing again. _I closed my eyes again._ His limbs are heavy, a drowsiness clinging to him and fogging his thoughts. Realization dawns. "There wasn't just elfroot in that tea, was there?"

"No," Dorian replies matter-of-factly. "There were other herbs for the pain, too. They will make you sleep, but there's no helping that. I'll treat the wound with the new supplies and we'll start for Sahrnia when you awaken." Once again, he unbuttons the sides of the gambeson and pulls it off, gently urging Kashek away from the stone with a hand on his good shoulder, until he leans forward just enough that there's space to free it. Even that motion wakes a myriad of pains along his side, and he groans softly. Dorian winces at the sound.

The shirt is harder. Dorian tries to lift his bad arm to tug it off. Despite the gentleness of the motion, the wave of agony is mind-numbing, a flash of red in his mind that overwhelms all other thought. He cries out, and Dorian pauses.

"Damn it all," he swears under his breath as he lowers the arm. "I'm just cutting the shirt off. I should have done that the first time, but I was worried about the cold."

Kashek is having difficulty following the words. "It is cold," he agrees wearily as his eyelids sag shut again. Dorian begins slicing upward along the side seam of the shirt, sawing softly with the newly-sharpened blade of his belt knife.

His eyes flutter open for a moment when Dorian shifts his arm aside again. The mage is as gentle as possible, but it still sends a pang down Kashek's side. His shirt has been sliced open on both sides, rolled up like a window covering to expose the bandages on his bare chest beneath. Savra's seashell pendant rests against his collarbone. The air is cool on his skin, and he shivers. Dorian slips his knife gently under the bandages, the sharpened edge of the blade facing outward to slice through them as well.

Dorian's eyes meet Kashek's for one tense moment. He takes a deep breath and starts peeling away the bandage. With mild surprise, Kashek realizes his entire left side is warm and damp. He glances down to see the wet cotton cloth draped over the wound, soaking through the makeshift bandage with the elfroot-infused water.

"So removing the bandages won't reopen the wound as badly," Dorian explains.

"I know what it's for," Kashek replies, voice hoarse. How deeply had he dozed? "How do you?"

Dorian grimaces. "Tevinter is not always a pretty place to live, and healers were sometimes not an option. Let's leave it at that."

To that remark, Kashek has no response, left to wonder if Dorian had been forced to treat his own wounds or another's, and from what sort of injury. It's not a pleasant thought, and he wishes he could comfort the mage, but everything he wants to say would only hurt worse.

It's exhausting, the worry and the heartache, piled atop his other pains. Though as he thinks that, Kashek realizes the aches in his bones and the dull throbbing in his knee have ceased. Only the single burning pain remains, the wound that sears his skin and poisons him from within.

Still, it's so very, very difficult to keep his eyes open. Kashek closes them again and lets the drugged tea take his consciousness.


	9. Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian seeks food and makes a desperate call for help while Inquisitor Adaar grows still weaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand how about some *more* hurt/comfort?

When Kashek's breathing steadies again, it's one small mercy. Hopefully he will remain asleep for this.

Dorian grits his teeth and peels the bandage from the wound.

It's worse than he'd thought. How could it get so bad in only two days? Grimly, he has to face the possibility that the weapon had been poisoned, for it turn so rotten so quickly. The sight of it is awful, but the smell is worse. Holding his breath, he begins the tedious process of cleaning the festering injury.

At one point, he stops and tries magic. He knows the theory of major healing, at least. Closing his eyes, Dorian reaches through the Fade, sending out a distress signal, a plea. Healing of this magnitude can only be accomplished with the aid of certain spirits, and none come to his call.

Dorian wastes more energy on the effort than he should. Those spirits have never shown an affinity for him. The elemental fury of fire and lightning, the souls of the dead, those he can command with ease. But this still eludes him. He mutters a curse under his breath, opens his eyes, and continues the laborious task of treating the injury the old-fashioned way.

It's an unpleasant experience, but Kashek slumbers through all of it. Dorian has washed the cloth in the small trickle of stream nearby more times than he can count, and the elfroot-infused pot of water has gone dry by the time he's convinced the infection has been scrubbed away, as much as it can be. The cotton is no longer a soft, clean pale ivory hue, now stained with fresh blood and other, fouler fluids. Still, he refills the pot with snow and sets it on the fire with the bit of fabric to boil it clean again.

He turns back to his patient. The skin is a deep pink all around the wound, swollen and shining. Veins stand out near the skin in dark purplish red, spreading out like the roots of a tree. It hurts just to look at. His ministrations caused it to start bleeding again, but that's probably for the best, to flush out the injury. The blood has slowed by now, enough that he can use the rest of his supplies. The small bottle of clear liquid gets trickled on first. The smell burns his nostrils, an alcoholic odor stronger than the worst dwarven spirits. Kashek stirs in his sleep with a small sound of pain, but doesn't awaken.

Next, he smears on the unguent from the pot, a heavy, greasy compound that coats the injury like melted wax. He presses the second square of cotton over it and wraps the fresh roll of bandage around it. The Qunari truly is soundly asleep, to rest through Dorian's efforts of pushing him away from the wall to slide the bandage around his back. Once tied off, the wound is as good as it will ever be, until they find help.

Help which is such a terribly long way off. What is a day's travel for a healthy man may drag much longer with Kashek in this state. The terrain is uneven, some of it uphill. Kashek's injured knee will slow them even further.

The hunters, though reluctant to send one of their number, were happy enough to give him directions to Sahrnia. It lies north and east from here. As long as they keep traveling toward a particular peculiar-shaped peak in the distance, they will find it.

Inquisition scouts must be searching for them by now, but these foothills are vast and they've wandered far from where they fell. A signal fire could summon them, but it could also draw the attention of bandits or worse.

Washing his hands in the stream, an idea strikes him,a glimmer of hope. He stands, shaking his hands as dry as he can. No use wiping them on his robe, filthy as it's become.

It doesn't take long for him to find what he searches for. A raven perches on a tree branch nearby, watching him with curious eyes. Dorian murmurs a small apology to the creature as lightning surges from him. It strikes cleanly, and the creature falls in a tangle of feathers.

 _Quickly now._ He reaches out with his focus and latches onto the spirit before it can fully escape, hooking it like a fish on a line. It settles on the ground before him, a ghostly apparition of its former self. He fills the spell with as much of his magical energy as he dares, hoping it will be enough to keep the spirit animated long enough to finish the task he asks of it. Birds are usually simple with skittish minds, but ravens are cleverer than most. He imprints a command onto the creature's phantom, then watches it take wing, setting out directly for Sahrnia.

It's not a true messenger, but any of their companions will hopefully recognize the spirit as one of his and follow it back to them. The spirit flies as quickly as its former host, and could be to Sahrnia by full dark.

It's a thin thread of hope, but it's more than they had a moment ago.

He starts back toward the camp, then pauses. With a sigh, he crosses back to the dead bird and picks it up to carry back to the fire. He's never prepared a bird before, and has a suspicion that the effort would not normally be worth what little meat they'll get from a raven. But it seems foolish not to take what lies before him. The feathers smell like scorched hair, singed from the jolt of lightning.

At their makeshift camp, he gathers more fallen branches and adds them to the fire, removes the boiling pot to let it cool, and sets the raven nearby to check on Kashek.

The Inquisitor still sleeps soundly, breaths deep and even. Mercifully, his skin is no longer burning to the touch. There is perhaps still a small fever, but not the raging fire it was just an hour before.

Dorian glances up at the sky. The sun is already dipping toward the horizon. They will have to spend another restless night out in the open before setting out tomorrow. They could try to travel by moonlight, but that's risky with Kashek's bad knee. It's all too likely they'd miss a step in the dark, or stumble on a hidden stone, injuring him further.

He rubs his eyes wearily as he regards the raven and the daunting task of plucking the beast for roasting. He's so very tired. How long has it been since he slept in that underground cavern? Almost a full day, he thinks. Time jumbles together in his mind, the cave making it hard to tell day from night and the sun's motions a mere backdrop for his worry.

Well, that can wait a little longer. He is reluctant to sleep until the Inquisitor awakens, lest someone stumble upon their camp while they're both caught slumbering. Their fire is noticeable for anyone nearby, but that can't be helped. He's kept it as small as possible, but a thin trail of smoke curls up into the sky nonetheless.

Plucking a bird is harder than he'd thought. By the end of it, his hands are raw from gripping the feathers tightly enough to twist them loose. The sun is setting and the bird is roasting on a sharpened branch over the flames when Kashek finally awakens.

The Inquisitor stirs fitfully, a groan escaping his lips. The sound is a knife, a rebuke that Dorian could not do better to ease Kashek's pain. Dorian winces at the soft exclamation, then wedges the skewer in a snowdrift to let it roast unattended.

He's at the Inquisitor's side before he even fully awakens. The Qunari's eyes open slowly, blinking away his dreams. They focus on Dorian's face with a small, pained smile. The grin fades almost instantly though, as his brow lowers in a small scowl. "You drugged me to sleep."

Dorian's response comes with a tired half-smile as he presses the back of a hand to Kashek's forehead again. His fever is at least lessened, it seems. His eyes are clearer too. "I drugged you for the pain," he points out. "The sleep was a side effect."

"Semantics," Kashek murmurs, then shivers. The side seams of his shirt still lie slashed open, letting cool air in. The gambeson rests nearby, a garment Dorian was unable to fit back onto the unconscious Inquisitor. Dorian's coat drapes over him again, a feeble blanket. The fire burns larger and hotter than before in an attempt to stave off the cold, but the odd breeze still gusts from time to time.

"It was necessary," Dorian replies. "Your wound needed better treatment."

Kashek closes his eyes wearily with a gentle sigh. "I'm sorry, Dorian. Thank you."

"Thank me when we get out of this alive," Dorian mutters, turning back to the flames and the bird. It should be done by now. He removes the skewer from the flames and holds it up for Kashek. "I'd also wait to thank me until after you've been forced to eat my cooking."

The Inquisitor shifts his weight, using his good arm to sit up straighter. "What is that?"

"A raven," Dorian grins at Kashek's doubtful look.

It is a rather pitiful sight, actually, the poor bird all plucked, singed black on one side where it rested in the flames too long.

"I never claimed to be a chef," Dorian sniffs testily, touching the bird gingerly to check its temperature. Still too hot to eat.

"Obviously," Kashek grins.

It's almost embarrassing, how much of a relief it is to witness the simple sight of the Inquisitor's grin, to hear that teasing note in his voice. For less than a heartbeat, Dorian forgets that it's all over between them. For one brief instant, everything is going to be fine. Then it all floods back. That smile is no longer rightfully his, and they are in imminent danger. The situation is dire, another night out in the elements, with no tent and one small coat between them, only the fire to keep the cold at bay.

The thought douses that brief window of joy, and Dorian turns his eyes away from the Inquisitor's smiling face. When he checks the bird again, it's still warm but no longer scorches his fingertips. He holds it out between them with a small frown. "Supper's on, I suppose."

The Inquisitor doesn't mention Dorian's sudden shift of mood, but his own spirits seem dampened once again while they eat the meager meal, pulling off strips of meat with bare fingers. They eat in silence for a short time. His cooking does leave something to be desired, the bird dry and bland without seasoning. It's overcooked, but Kashek doesn't comment on it.

Instead, after they've finished, Kashek wipes his fingers clean on a bit of his shirt while Dorian stands and walks several steps away, tossing what's left of the bird carcass as far from their camp as possible. No point in attracting scavengers.

"Help me up?" Kashek asks when Dorian returns.

"We shouldn't travel until light," Dorian says, glancing up at the darkening sky.

It's still light enough that the flush in Kashek's cheeks is visible. "It's not that. I need a moment. Uh, alone."

It takes a few moments for his meaning to settle in. "Oh!" Dorian hadn't even thought about nature's call. Flustered, he holds out a hand and helps the Inquisitor to stand. "Wait, how..."

Kashek chuckles. "While you were asleep, in the cave. And when you were gone to find the hunters. I can manage on my own, it just hurts."

"I... oh." Dorian hadn't even known the Inquisitor left and returned while he slept in that cold underground cavern. He doesn't truly embarrass easily, but this does it. Awkwardly, he helps Kashek walk a short distance from camp, among the trees, and helps him rest against the bark of a tall pine.

"I'll be nearby, if you need me," Dorian murmurs and slips away, back to the fire.

When he sits, leaning against the boulder, the exhaustion plucks at him. He needs to sleep, and desperately. The small meal was not enough to fill his belly, and his stomach growls. The fire is larger now, pleasantly warm in the chill. He doesn't even need the coat that lies discarded on the ground nearby.

It's nearly dark now, the sky rose and crimson. Has is phantom raven made it to Sahrnia camp yet? Are they following it through the dark even now?

No way of knowing, and the uncertainty of the situation gnaws at him, an endless anxiety. He lets his thoughts drift, and waits for the Inquisitor to return or for his call. For just a moment, he closes his heavy eyelids. At first light, they will set out. He dreads that, knowing how difficult the journey down the hill will be for Kashek.

 

* * *

 

 

Dorian jostles awake when Kashek settles wearily next to him with stiff motions and a small grunt of pain. Dorian jolts upright, gasping softly. He hadn't intended to doze.

Before he can utter an apology, the Inquisitor cuts him off. "How long has it been since you slept?"

Dorian hesitates as he yawns, counting back the hours. "A day, perhaps."

"Rest. I'll keep watch. The tea's worn off and I'm awake."

It feels wrong, to make the injured man keep watch, but there's no real choice. And Dorian's not sure he could stay awake anyway. Too exhausted to protest, he settles back against the stone. Kashek scoots a bit closer, and Dorian rests a head on his good shoulder. Foolish, he knows, but his weariness has stripped away his will to fight the urge.

The Inquisitor sighs quietly. It's the last sound Dorian hears before sleep settles over him again.


	10. Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as their situation grows bleak, a desire demon finds Dorian and tempts him with the one thing he wants most of all.

As exhausted and wrung-out as he is, it's not much surprise when the demon greets him in his dream. This one hasn't even bothered with the usual show of elaborately tempting illusions, setting a simple stage. Their tiny campsite is perfectly recreated, right down to the pile of kindling he stacked beside the fire. Dorian is standing near the flames, though he doesn't recall awakening or moving. A strange otherworldly quality in the air warns him this is the Fade, that he dreams.

In this vision, Kashek sits against the boulder, staring into the fire with weary eyes.

The creature beside Dorian hasn't even gone to the trouble of mimicking another's appearance. The demon's pale purple-hued skin is unmasked by any illusion, his eerie black eyes unsettling.

"I don't know if I should feel insulted," Dorian remarks lightly to the demon. "I should at least merit a proper attempt at seduction. A man does want to be wooed."

"It's not necessary." The demon's voice is silken and strange, both whisper and murmur at once. "Your need is so great. I know what you desire, and I can give it to you."

"You demons do always promise the world," Dorian sighs. "But somehow you always fail to mention the price. I wonder why?"

The demon shrugs, a small elegant gesture. "You know the price. You also know the offer. I can give you the power to heal him." The creature glides past Dorian, his movements holding an unearthly grace. He leans over the Inquisitor, who ignores the demon entirely. After all, Kashek isn't really here. He's just an illusion, a bit of set dressing for this piece of theatre.

"He weakens, and you know it," the demon whispers, brushing the Inquisitor's shoulder with one long-fingered hand. "You won't make it to safety before the poison claims him."

Even knowing the demon's ploy, the words twist a blade in Dorian's chest. They are his own worries given voice. He'd thought himself strong, able to withstand the temptation of demons without much worry. Until Kashek.

The Inquisitor is a tiny crack in the armor around his soul, a weak spot, and this demon has found it. It's wedged its clawed fingers into that fissure and pried it open.

For the first time, Dorian is truly tempted to accept a demon's offer. They will not make it the day's travel to Sahrnia, in Kashek's current state. If it saves the Inquisitor, the terrible bargain would be worth it.

He knows the cost, knows what he would become. Kashek would have to kill him. Or at least the thing that will wear his skin, after.

 _It would break the Inquisitor, to do that._ That knowledge is sharp-edged. It should be a comfort, to know someone cares that deeply. Instead, it digs deep like a blade. He could save Kashek's life, but at the cost of the man's happiness. He wouldn't forgive himself. Dorian can picture the Inquisitor's anguished expression in excruciating detail, a twisted twin to the one he wore on that dirt-packed road outside Val Firmin.

"He would recover, in time," the demon murmurs in his ear, suddenly beside him. "All wounds of the heart heal eventually."

 _Maybe that much is true,_ Dorian reasons with himself while he stares at the illusory Kashek. The false Inquisitor's face tightens in pain, and he presses his good hand against his injury, over the shirt and the bandages.

 _I was going to leave him anyway, when this was all over._ At least if Dorian saves the Inquisitor's life, he would have done something worthwhile. Kashek would be alive, free to heal and carry on, to forget Dorian in time. He'd be healed, and able to continue the fight against Corypheus.

Dorian takes a long, shuddering breath, and opens his mouth to reply to the demon. He closes his eyes and says a silent mental goodbye. _Vitae benefaria, Kashek._ Maybe someday, the Inquisitor will forgive him for what he's about to do.

Suddenly, a mental image flashes before his eyes, the tombstone in the Nightmare's vision. His name and that single word carved into cold, unchanging stone: _Temptation._

The contrary flash of his anger is small, but it is enough. _No.I will not be so weak._

He says the denial out loud. "No."

"You would sentence him to death?" The demon asks, voice dripping with dark, honeyed venom.

Dorian shakes his head, moving to stand beside the illusion of Kashek and turning to stare down the demon. "No. I will save him without your help."

The creature glares, eyes narrowed in cold anger at defeat. After a moment, his plum-colored lips curl into a dark, knowing smile. "No, you will not. Soon, when he lies dying, you will beg for my aid. And I will be here, waiting."

"I hope you have something to read," Dorian replies sharply. "It's going to be a long wait."

 

* * *

 

Dorian awakens abruptly, between one breath and the next. At some point, he's shifted in his sleep to lie on his back on the hard stone. His eyes open to the gray light of dawn and their fire burning low. The small pile of branches he'd collected is gone, fed into the flames overnight.

"Awake?" The Inquisitor's voice is a gentle murmur from behind him. His head turns, to find Kashek lying beside him, between Dorian and the tall boulder. The Inquisitor also rests on his back, face turned sideways to regard Dorian with a small smile. How badly had it pained him to settle into that position on his own?

Dorian rolls on his side to face Kashek, propping his head up on one arm. The Inquisitor's smile is a relief, a small glimmer of joy. There's even a hint of the subtle, playful spark in those eyes once again.

Though he can still feel the demon's insidious promises tugging at the corner of his mind, Dorian brushes them away. A sliver of doubt burrows deep within him. Did he make the right choice? Kashek's cheeks are flushed with fever still, and there is a tightness about his brow that betrays his pain.

But he still smiles, and there is a brightness in his gaze, a glow that Dorian finds himself returning. Their particular resonance, a melody of give and take, a song and a light that calls back and forth between them, growing in the process.

Perhaps it's only that he's still a little bit asleep, or maybe it's the eerie liminal quality of the dawn's half-light, but Kashek's proposal of the day before fills his mind, pressing agains the walls of Dorian's resolve. Would it be so terrible, just to pretend for another day, to make a few more happy memories?

 _I'm a fool,_ he chides himself even as he leans over the Inquisitor.

Their lips meet, and Kashek sighs, a small puff of breath against his mouth.

"This is a terrible idea." Dorian murmurs between kisses.

"I know," Kashek whispers, tilting his head and lifting it to deepen the kiss.

"We're not thinking clearly." Dorian's mumbled protest lacks conviction, barely more than a breath.

"I know."

"This is only temporary," he promises to himself as much as to the Inquisitor.

Kashek pauses, holding Dorian's chin lightly in his one good hand. His eyes are bright, his smile wistful. "I know. Now stop ruining the moment." His grin turns teasing as he pulls Dorian close again.

Dorian takes a deep breath and lets go. He tries to ignore the flush of warmth in the Inquisitor's touch, his fever raging again. Instead, Dorian doesn't think about anything. Not their uncertain future, not the rest of the world, nothing save the two of them and the light that glimmers between them.

For a handful of heartbeats, it works. But even this moment must end, and his worries push themselves upon him relentlessly,

Eventually, Dorian pulls away, reluctance causing a hand to linger on Kashek's shoulder as he speaks. "We need to move," he says wearily.

Kashek sighs, and holds out his right hand for help sitting up. This specific moment may have been broken, but the taut string of nervous tension that had been strung between them has snapped, When Kashek stands, their fingers twine together for a few moments before Dorian turns to pack up their supplies and gather his coat.

Their motions have an ease to them now, hands lingering longer than they should, their worries pushed aside with small smiles and quick, affectionate kisses. A flush still rests high in the Inquisitor's cheeks, but his mind seems clear.

As Dorian gathers the supplies into the bag, he knows he could dose Kashek with more tea for the fever, but fears the drowsiness it will cause. Dorian picks up his coat and offers it to Kashek, who declines. "It'll do you more good than me, now."

With the wave of a hand and a gust of damp icy wind, Dorian snuffs out their fire.

"You're walking on your own more eadily," he remarks as Kashek settles a hand on his shoulder for balance.

"It only hurts when I move a certain way," Kashek admits. "I'm learning how to cope."

Neither of them mention the worse concern, the poison that still spreads in Kashek's body. They set out down the hill, eating some of the dried jerky as they go. The journey is slow going, and difficult. Kashek's steps are cautious and sluggish. Several times, he stumbles frighteningly before steadying himself against Dorian. He radiates heat like a furnace, and his strength wanes all too quickly. His breathing grows labored, and they are forced to take frequent breaks.

Each time they rest, the Inquisitor's mind wanders a little further, his speech taking on the slurred quality of exhaustion and his concentration lagging.

Still, Dorian hides his growing panic. He keeps their pace slow but steady, pointed straight at the odd-shaped peak that lies on the other side of Sahrnia. With small, encouraging words, he urges Kashek to keep going, his arm around the Inquisitor's waist for support. His injured shoulder throbs with the effort, but he barely notices.

Sahrnia seems an insurmountable distance, and Dorian struggles not to let bitter despair was over him. Kashek's strength fades, and he may not be able to continue on until dark before resting more deeply. His words grow vague and sometimes nonsensical as the fever rages more furiously.

It's mid-afternoon when the worst happens. Kashek stumbles, his knee collapsing as he falls to the ground with a heavy thud. Dorian cries out and tries to stop the fall, but the Inquisitor's heavy weight is too much for him.

Kashek lies completely still where he fell, his consciousness fled. He breathes, but shallowly, and his pulse is weak when Dorian presses shaky fingers to his throat.

Panic floods Dorian for a few long, unbearable moments before he manages to quell it enough to think. He takes a deep breath and moves the Inquisitor's limbs into a more comfortable position. The Qunari's skin burns, the fever raging worse than ever.

Tiny, insidious fingers pluck at the edges of Dorian's mind. A demon's promise. _"I will be here, waiting."_

He pushes that temptation away and tries to rouse the Inquisitor, but to no avail. Kashek lies still and unmoving, the rise and fall of his chest alarmingly erratic. For one infinite moment, he does not breathe at all, then sucks in another shallow breath, sudden and fierce.

It's hopeless. They're still too far from Sahrnia. No help will reach them in time. Even if he sets out alone to find aid and manages to return to Kashek, it will be too late.

So he kneels next to the man he loves and waits to watch him die.

 _I can't._ He blinks away the tears that sting his eyes. _The Nightmare was right._ Temptation would be his downfall, after all. Falling to a damned desire demon, a shameful end that would leave half the Imperium shaking their heads and tutting to themselves. "I knew it," they'd mutter to each other.

But he can bear that shame, if it saves Kashek.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, leaning down to place a final kiss on the Inquisitor's cheek and tasting his own tears on Kashek's skin.

He opens his mouth, gathering the courage to utter the words that will summon the demon forth. It's latched on to him now, hovering eagerly on the other side of the Veil. It will take little effort to call.

A harsh caw interrupts him, a dark shape hurtling from the sky to alight on Kashek's chest. The phantom raven cocks its head, staring at Dorian with its cunning black eyes. It shakes itself, fluffing and settling its feathers.

"I found them!" The call is triumphant, urgent, the voice familiar.

Dorian looks up to find Cole coming up the hill only a dozen paces away, emerging from a thick copse of trees.

His heart stops beating for a moment when he sees the glittering red vial in the boy's hand. Cole runs up the hill as quickly as his light steps will take him.

He shoves the potion bottle at Dorian in nervous haste. "Here. To help. I heard you."

Dorian has little time to worry about what Cole has read in his mind this time. He uncorks the vial with trembling fingers and drips a few precious drops into Kashek's mouth, hoping they'll be swallowed. With his other arm, he lifts Kashek's head, barely feeling the twinge in his injured shoulder.

"Please," he whispers, a plea to both Kashek and the Maker.

Time stills, and Dorian debates whether to pour more of the potion down Kashek's throat. But suddenly, the Inquisitor draws a sharp breath and his eyelids flutter just a bit.

It's enough. Something breaks open inside Dorian's chest, and the tears flow again. But these are tears of relief. "Drink this," he urges as he holds the vial to Kashek's lips and tips it slowly. The Inquisitor's eyes don't open, but he swallows the potion down, to the last drop.

The effect is almost instantaneous. Kashek's eyes fly open and he hauls in a long, hard breath. He sits up sharply. It takes a moment before Dorian realizes that Kashek supports his weight on his left arm.

The Inquisitor follows Dorian's awestruck, incredulous gaze and startles. He lifts his arm gingerly, as if expecting pain. When it doesn't come, he raises the arm above his head and stretches it experimentally. His grin is pure joy when he meets Dorian's eyes again.

He can't help himself. Dorian throws his arms around the Inquisitor, holding him almost unbearably tight, his face buried in the crook of Kashek's neck. The Qunari's arms wrap him just as firmly. No trace of the fever remains, the warmth of Kashek's skin merely his usual heat.

"How?" The Inquisitor murmurs the question against the nape of Dorian's neck, the cool weight of one of Kashek's horns pressed against his ear.

Dorian's breath is still shaky, his voice hoarse. "Cole," he says, only now remembering that their embrace has an audience. For once, he doesn't care. The spirit won't mind, and Dorian came far too close to losing Kashek to let him go so soon. Dorian loosens his arms just enough to draw back a little. He places a single gentle kiss on Kashek's lips before nodding behind the Inquisitor at the boy.

Cole stands quietly as ever two paces away, but his lips are drawn into a small, contented smile. "You sent the bird, and we followed."

Kashek looks puzzled, and turns to Dorian for explanation, their arms still locked in an embrace. The sudden relief after the bleakness of his despair has left Dorian lightheaded. Laughter springs up within him, escaping from his lips as a delirious sort of sound. "I'll explain later," he murmurs as he rests his head on Kashek's shoulder.

A small, polite cough interrupts them. Dorian looks up to see Varric behind Cole, and two Inquisition scouts emerging from the trees. The dwarf's expression is a sort of amused smugness, and Dorian gives Varric his best acerbic glare.

Yet, he doesn't draw away immediately. For three more heartbeats, Dorian remains in the embrace. When he starts to pull away, he leaves one small kiss on Kashek's cheek. "Don't ever come that close to leaving me again," he whispers too quietly for the others to hear, then stands. He offers the Inquisitor a hand up. After Kashek stands, Dorian lets his hand remain in the Qunari's grasp a heartbeat longer than it needs to, sliding his fingers away slowly.

Kashek's eyes narrow slightly, brow furrowing in puzzlement. Dorian can almost hear the words of the unspoken question. He'd said he would break the relationship when they found help. But the Inquisitor almost left him today. Dorian had nearly sacrificed his own soul to save Kashek's life just minutes ago. He's not ready to let go, not quite yet. He shakes his head slightly, muttering, "later".

The Qunari gives an almost imperceptible nod before he stretches, rolling his shoulders with a pleased grin. He stands straight, moving with the casual confidence of a healthy body. _Right now, he's probably healthier than I am,_ Dorian thinks wryly. His wrenched shoulder throbs again, agitated by the embrace. A pain that was worth it.

"The bird was a clever move, Sparkler," Varric falls into step beside him as the scouts lead the way back to camp. "Scared a couple of scouts half out of their wits, this glowing purple ghost raven landing right on the requisition table and screeching to raise the dead. Well, dead _er_ , anyway. You get the gist. Soon as we saw it, we recognized your horrifying handiwork. Bull and Cassandra were off scouting when it showed up, but Cole and I were there to follow it."

Varric shakes his head with a nod at the spirit. "The kid was half out of his mind. He could hear your worries, and knew the Inquisitor was hurt, but we didn't know where. Had scouts combing half the Emprise looking for you, but without the bird to guide us..." he lets the sentence trail off.

"Thank you." His mind latches on to one small fact in Varric's tale. "Cole couldn't find us," he realizes. "Didn't he do that, before? Locate the hurting, follow the call of their pain?"

Varric grunts with a nod. "Used to. Can't anymore. I think our world's changing him."

"Into what, I wonder?" Dorian muses, watching the spirit walk lightly ahead, beside Kashek. The thought is a welcome distraction, after everything, a magical puzzle his mind can latch onto.

"In that, your guess is better than mine," Varric shrugs. "Either way, I'm glad we found you when we did."

Dorian shivers, remembering how terribly close he'd come to that horrid bargain. The demon's whispering presence is gone now, the spirit fled deeper into the Fade when Dorian's need was gone. He'd come within a razor's edge of the very fate etched onto that tombstone by the Nightmare, and the thought leaves him cold.

"So am I, Varric, so am I."


	11. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bittersweet end to their trials, Inquisitor Adaar and Dorian are safe once again. A short, precious window of time lies before them before the inevitable.

At camp, the atmosphere is downright festive, everyone ecstatic that the Inquisitor has been found. An impromptu party springs up among the scouts and the rest of their companions.

Dorian, while unspeakably relieved, is not much in the mood for a celebration. Part of him, a large part, wants to stay close by the Inquisitor, to watch him laugh to Varric's stories or tease the uptight Cassandra along with Bull.

But a smaller part of him is too exhausted and heartsore for such an exuberant company. It has been a difficult few days, and all he wants is to steal some of the Inquisitor's time for his own. But that is a selfish need, especially since his resolve to ultimately end their relationship has not changed.

So Dorian wanders to the edge of camp to ponder his next move. Leaning against one of the Emprise's impossibly tall trees, he pulls his coat tighter about his shoulders and stares up at the sky. His resolution remains. The situation hasn't changed. For the good of the Inquisition, he can't pursue Kashek further. By the time they reach Skyhold, all of those treasured moments with Kashek will be nothing more than a bittersweet memory. Every smile, every touch, he'd remember them all with both fondness and pain.

For a few tempting seconds, he considers something more clandestine despite his previous insistence against it. But he has to admit it would never work. Dorian cringes from the thought of being a secret their enemies could uncover to use against Kashek.

It has to end. There's no other solution, no matter how he wraps his head around the problem.

Even after Corypheus is defeated, the Inquisition will remain, and Kashek with it. And their allies no more forgiving than before.

He has decided to remain until their fight is over, at least. But if they manage to save the world, what then? He could remain at Skyhold, live the silent torment of remaining at Kashek's side, but at a cruel arm's length.

Or he could leave the Inquisition.

And go where?

Fragments of remembered conversations flicker through his memory. Varric's comment about returning to Minrathous a hero, when all is said and done. That Tevinter would welcome him home with open arms after he helped save the world. And a biting remark from Solas, chiding him for not making an effort to truly fix his complaints about his homeland. _Then how sorry are you?_

He could return to the country that once disdained him and shoved him aside. He could fight to create a better Tevinter.

It would be an entire continent away from Kashek, from the one place his heart truly wants to be. But it is a chance to make a difference, to shape the world for the better. Is that not a cause worth leaving his heart behind?

The footsteps that crunch on the snow-covered ground are a pace he recognizes without looking, and Dorian's heartbeat speeds up. He's not ready to test this resolve just yet. Later, he will tell Kashek of this new resolution.

But not now. Not tonight.

The Inquisitor approaches to stand wordlessly beside him, and tilts his head up to look at the same stars. His nearness is too much to bear without touch, not after today. Dorian takes a small step sideways and leans into Kashek, slipping an arm around the Qunari's waist. Kashek's hand rests lightly on his shoulder, tentatively.

 _Just a little longer,_ Dorian promises himself.

They stand silently for a few moments, both afraid to speak. Dorian's ribcage feels too tight, and there is a stinging sensation behind his eyes. He never thought he'd feel this much for a single person, never thought he'd let himself fall so far. He wonders if he'll ever gather the courage to confess to Kashek how much he'd been willing to sacrifice today, to save him. Probably not. Not now, with the end so near.

He breaks the silence awkwardly, asking a question that is not truly the one either wants to utter. "How is your injury?"

The Inquisitor's response is just as cautiously casual. "Good. It aches, but a good sort of pain, the healing kind."

Silence falls again, and Dorian feels the muscles in Kashek's back tense beneath his hand. The Inquisitor clears his throat softly. "So where are we now?"

Dorian closes his eyes with a sigh. He tries to keep his voice steady, but fails. "I... I haven't changed my mind. The Inquisition still needs you, free of scandal." Though he's said the words before, they still sting like nettles in his throat. " When we reach Skyhold, this ends. It has to."

Kashek is quiet for a few moments. His shoulders slump, and Dorian knows he's finally stopped fighting. That acceptance has settled in.

The bleakness that washes over Dorian is a surprise. He hadn't known a part of him still wanted Kashek to fight, despite the hopelessness.

The Inquisitor's voice is a low murmur when he asks the next question. "And until Skyhold? What are we until then?"

Dorian turns his head to look up at the Qunari's profile. Kashek catches the motion and turns to meet his eyes. Even in the colorless moonlight, Dorian knows their golden-green hue. There is a flicker of hope there, and once again Dorian feels his emotions echo the Inquisitor's. _Just a little longer._ A sad smile brushes Dorian's lips. "Until then, we are whatever we want to be."

 _Not yet,_ his mind whispers to him. _Four more days, that much I'll take for myself._ Dorian finds the courage to utter, "Until Skyhold, I'm yours. Without reserve, without caution. If it's to be goodbye, we'll make it worth it." There is a strange, giddy lightness to that sort of abandon, and his head fills with it.

The expression on Kashek's face is enough to break his heart. Deep, deep despair mingled with a piercing sort of joy.

Dorian can't suffer those poignant, wounded eyes any longer. He tilts his chin up and Kashek closes the rest of the distance. The raucous sounds of the celebration at camp echo in his ears, but out here on the fringes they can build their own little world, just for a short time.

Four days. It's not enough. Years wouldn't be enough. But Dorian is determined to make the most of what they have before he breaks both of their hearts again.

 

* * *

 

Even with the specter of their inevitable split so near, the journey back is a small pocket of happiness for Kashek. It's a bitter sort of knowledge, that Dorian finally committed his heart fully with abandon, mere days before it all comes crashing down. Heedless of their companions, the mage's affections shine in every motion, in knowing smiles, in letting small casual touches linger a moment or two longer than usual. At night, they walk away from camp and talk alone for hours. And sometimes they do very little talking.

There is one final wall between them, but they both shy from that, though he suspects Dorian aches for it as much as he does.

 _It would only make it worse, later,_ Kashek tells himself. He only half believes it.

Still, the long, sleepless nights are worth it. All of the emotional barriers are torn down, and by the light of the stars, they speak of everything they'd held back before. Dorian tells Kashek unflinchingly of his life in Tevinter, the best and worst of growing up a pariah and spiteful rebel. He glosses over none of it, and Kashek feels the truth drawing them even closer. Kashek tells Dorian small stories of Savra, happy memories. Like one memorable day when she punched a human boy and broke his nose for calling their mother a barbaric oxwoman. Or when they'd secretly raised a baby bird they'd found far from a nest, digging up worms and collecting beetles to feed to it until it could fly. And the time she pushed him into a muddy creek for tattling to their mother about the new swear words she'd started using.

Dorian shares happier tales too, more than just bitter stories of his life among the dregs of Tevinter society. For the first time since Felix's death, he tells Kashek tales of the boy's kindness to him, and how he'd found a second family in the Alexius home. "It was good, for a while," he says. "Until the darkspawn attack."

Kashek holds him tighter and changes the subject.

And so the time passes. Those few days and nights are a living dream. Kashek even grows bold enough to grasp Dorian's hand one night at the fire when they stop at a small Inquisition outpost. To his delight, the mage not only accepts the touch after a small instinctive flinch, but leans into the circle of his arm in full view of everyone. A small, proud bit of possessiveness flares in him at the moment, a declaration to the world. _He is mine, and I am his._

_For now._

Kashek tries not to think about the end, so near. A dread fills him at the thought of walking into Skyhold, at the end of this. He pushes it down deep, for just a little longer.

The rest of the journey is uneventful, for the most part. He'd mended his shirt and gambeson at Sahrnia camp, and gotten a new shield and sword. The rift they close with little challenge, and they make it through the narrow mountain passes with only a few minor skirmishes.

Their other companions give Kashek and Dorian space, but even their moods seem lightened by this change of affairs. He doubts they know that the hourglass is running out, that there is an end to this, though Cole must at least suspect.

When they finally make camp on the last mountain peak before the descent, Kashek is awake before the sunrise, staring down the hill as the dawn light illuminates the eastern landscape below. He sits on a fallen log, watching while Skyhold starts as a dark blotch below them, the details growing clearer as the hills stain orange with the sunrise.

"Skyhold," Dorian's voice behind him is heavy with bitterness. The sound startles Kashek, but his stare returns to the keep below.

"You're up early," he remarks, proud of how steady his voice remains.

Dorian barks a wry, bitter laugh. "As if I could sleep, knowing how little time remains. By evening, we'll be home."

Kashek shakes his head. He doesn't want to think about it. His steady voice is short-lived. It cracks hoarsely when he responds. "Too soon," he says.

"It would always be too soon," Dorian admits quietly. He sits beside Kashek on the log. It's almost an instinct now, to lean into one another, their arms sliding into place in practiced habit.

"Yes," Kashek agrees, tone grim.

"Still, it is a better farewell than the one we had in Val Firmin," Dorian mutters ruefully.

Kashek has to smile at that. "That much is true." They sit in silence a few more moments.

"Dorian," Kashek begins, and feels the mage's muscles tense against the curve of his arm. "Thank you. For saving me back there."

Dorian is silent for a moment. "It's no more than any of your friends would have done."

"I'm still glad it was you." Kashek takes a deep breath. The words rattle in his head, his heartbeat fluttering like a moth's wings. This may be the last chance he gets to truly admit how he feels. He's come so close to uttering the words, several times. Each time, he held back, fearing Dorian would frighten away. But it's now or never.

"Dorian, I..." he hesitates a bare second, turning to catch the mage's gray-eyed gaze.

Dorian silences him with a kiss. Too suddenly.

_He knows. He knows what I was about to say._

"Don't," Dorian murmurs against his lips. "Don't leave me with that. It's hard enough."

And so Kashek doesn't. He leaves the words hanging in the air, unsaid, but still echoing in his mind.

_I love you._

 

* * *

 

It happens all too quickly, the trip down the mountain. Before the day is out, they're approaching the gates of Skyhold. Dorian slips back, walking three paces behind. Kashek's heart screams at him to turn around, to steal one more day. Just one more.

But he steels his shoulders, fights the poisonous burn in his heart, and walks across that bridge without looking back.

The keep greets them with the usual bustle and chaos, enough to occupy his mind for a few moments, Members of the party split away as they cross the courtyard, heading to their own chambers or the tavern. When they trudge up the narrow steps, only Dorian and Varric trail behind him. Kashek doesn't glance back; he can't look at Dorian just yet.

"Inquisitor," the Ambassador greets Kashek with a friendly nod at the door to the Throne Room. The normally unflappable woman seems nervous, fidgeting with her pen and clipboard, her voice a touch too cheerful.. "A word in the War Room, please?"

Kashek sighs. "Lead the way."

That is, until Kashek steps through the doors and stops so abruptly that Dorian walks right into him.

"What in the--"

"Inquisitor," Josephine interrupts nervously. "I can explain."

The hall has been repaired while they were away. The holes in the ceiling have been patched, banners and mosaics hung, a rich carpet running down the center of the hall.

And statues line the walls. Gleaming bronze sculptures easily three times Kashek's height, of Qunari warriors.

Naked Qunari warriors.

Laughter suddenly erupts behind him, from both Dorian and Varric.

"Oh, they actually did it," Varric manages to blurt out between guffaws.

Dorian's laughter is the helpless, unstoppable sort that comes unbidden. "Ambassador, you really did?"

"Did what?" Kashek mutters, confused.

"A prominent Orlesian sculptor's guild wished to bestow the Inquisition with a gift," Josephine stammers, cheeks a brilliant pink. "I consulted Lord Pavus on what might please you."

Varric and Dorian can barely stand for their laughter now, leaning on one another and wiping tears from their eyes.

"Sparkler suggested something that called back to your Vashoth heritage," Varric murmured.

"Something..." Another riot of laughs bubbles up from Dorian, and he has to pause for a moment. "Something tasteful but still Qunari." He snorts another laugh, trying too hard to hold it back. It's the most undignified sound Kashek has ever heard from the man.

This elicits a fresh series of chortles from the dwarf. "We never thought you'd actually ask them to do it, Ruffles!"

"This is not what I had in mind!" Josephine declares defiantly.

Incredulous, Kashek stares at the pair of horned golden warriors framing the throne, blatantly nude yet so carefully covered with their long tresses. The giddiness fizzes up within him, too, and he can't help the small chuckle that spills from him. It grows, until he's laughing as hard as the rest.

"Imagine the snooty Orlesian sculptors having to work on these," Varric blurts out, causing all three of them to erupt in a new fit of giggles.

"And the models they must have called in!" Dorian adds.

"Oh, I'm sure our visiting dignitaries will just love the new décor," Varric snickers back at him, and they all burst into new laughter.

Josephine sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. "I suppose I should just be thankful you're not angry."

"I actually think I kind of love it," Kashek grins, sharing a small conspiratorial smile with Dorian. He aches to pull the mage closer and congratulate him for the prank with a kiss, but that is forbidden now Still, they can laugh together, and it aches a little less.

As long as they can both smile, they will get through this.

 _Nothing is carved in stone. When this is all over,_ Kashek thinks to himself, _I will win you back._

And watching Dorian's smiling face, he believes it.

 


End file.
